Hanging on By a Thread
by neonchica
Summary: When Dean loses his leg in a terrible hunting accident the brother's are forced to reevaluate their priorities. Can Dean still hunt? And is it really still worth the risk?
1. Chapter 1

_**Hi guys! First of all, I know I haven't finished 'A Stroke of Bad Luck,' but unfortunately my muse has left me on that one and I'm having trouble deciding where I want the story to go. I've gone for several months with this story in my head, promising myself I would finish the other one before putting this to paper. But the creative process finally won out and I figured it's better to post a story that has hope then to not post at all. So here it is...my new story. And I promise the other will be finished eventually; it just may take a while. As always, thanks for your support. Read and enjoy. Oh, and don't forget those wonderful reviews!! Happy Ney Year's every one. **_

_**Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, don't own the premise, but this here story is all mine.**_

"So tell me again why we have to make camp out here just to find this damn thing," Dean scowled, angrily swiping at a tree branch hanging in his way as he followed Sam through the barely chartered territory of Ontario woods in Canada in search of their newest prey.

Sam sighed, hands on hips as he turned around to face his obstinate big brother. "Dean, we've been over this. This thing, whatever it is, is going after campers. Deep woods, miles from nowhere, campers. We're not going to find anything patrolling the edges of the forest."

"Yeah, but Sam, I hate hiking. And I hate camping. I just hate this all the way around," Dean whined, pausing against a tree to take a drink of water. "Maybe we should just turn around now. We could hire a chopper to just drop us in the middle of the forest. Get in. Kill the damn thing. Get out. Bing - bang - boom."

"We've already been walking for almost four hours," Sam rationalized. "We're only about a quarter of a mile from where the first attack took place. Come on, Dean, let's just keep on going."

Dean huffed in annoyance as he hoisted his duffle back over his shoulder and pushed off again. "We're almost there," he mocked behind Sam's back. But out loud he shouted, "Do you honestly think this thing is gonna show it's fugly face tonight? These attacks aren't exactly happening in a regular pattern. Hell, Sam, we don't even know for sure what the hell we're after. What's to say we aren't just hiking out here for nothing?"

Several feet in front of Dean, Sam shrugged as he kept walking. "What's to say we're not?" came the simple reply, cutting short that particular line of questioning. "I just wish we knew more about what we're hunting."

"You're sure it's not a Wendigo?" Dean asked, stumbling over a root and quickly righting himself before Sam could notice. "I mean, we are in Canada. Isn't that where these things originated? It fits."

"No. I'm not sure. But I don't think it is. The location is about the only thing that fits the profile," Sam called back. "Wendigo's tend to have caves or someplace else that they can take their victims and eat them. And that's pretty much it...they're never seen or heard from again. But these campers, Dean, they've been mutilated but they're left visible. Whatever is hunting the campers wants to kill them, not eat them."

"So what do you think it is then?"

Sam sighed again, feigning annoyance, but Dean knew better. This was Sam's thing - research. And he was most in his element when he had something to figure out. "Well, all the bodies had deep, wide claw marks. Maybe a bear or a...I don't know for sure...something."

"Yeah, but if it's a bear then why are we out here?" Dean protested. "Shouldn't the forest rangers be taking care of it?"

"I don't think it's a _bear_ bear," Sam added.

Dean halted, head cocked as he tried to figure out what Sam meant by that one, and then raced forward to catch up with his little brother. He grabbed Sam's arm and spun him around, bringing his footsteps to a halt. "What the hell do you mean by it's not a _bear _bear. Dammit Sam, either it's a bear, or it's not a bear. Which one is it?"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam shouted in exasperation, his arms flailing wildly over his head. "I just know this is our kind of thing. Call it a hunch, a feeling...hell, Dean, I don't really care, call it insanity if you feel like it. But we need to be here."

They arrived in a clearing as Dean backed off of his interrogation. Sam came to a stop, eyes falling to the compass he held in his hands. "I think this is it," he announced, spinning in a slow circle to get a better look at their surroundings. "This should be where the first attack took place. Let's make camp here."

Despite Dean's displeasure at the idea of spending the night in the woods, he and Sam were both expert campers and they had the tent up and lunch cooking over a warm fire in no time flat. As they waited for their lunch to cook Sam began a thorough search of the area as Dean performed an equally thorough rite of protection on the perimeter, pouring a line of salt in a twelve foot diameter circle and placing protection charms every few feet. They ate when the food was ready and then regrouped, forming a search plan while it was still daylight.

xxxxxxxxxx

"So what exactly are we looking for again?" Dean asked, slicing his feet through a thick pile of underbrush and uncovering nothing.

"I don't know man. Anything out of the ordinary. Anything that seems out of place or unusual out in the woods. Look for a nest or maybe a burial pit of some sort. You're a smart man Dean, you know as well as I do what to be looking for."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Dean groused, his sour attitude increasing as he stepped into an ankle deep puddle of mud. He pulled it out, cursing loudly while scraping his boot against the nearest tree in a futile attempt to clean it. "I just wish there was another way. Or at least that we knew more about this thing. Something just doesn't feel right, Sam."

"Like what?" Sam asked, willing to listen if Dean really felt something, but fearing it was just the older man whining more.

"I don't know, Sam, something just seems off."

"Well you've gotta give me more than that. When you figure it out, let me know."

Dean sighed, kicking at more debris as he walked along. "I'm gonna go check things out over there," he announced, nudging his head to the right a ways. There looks like another clearing just beyond those trees. Why don't you keep looking around here and we'll meet up in ten."

Sam nodded, slightly distracted by a patch of color he'd just spotted, and he waved Dean off without a second glance. He leaned in, hands playing cautiously over the dense foliage that covered the small reddish leather pouch he'd just found. Reaching in and retrieving it, Sam turned the pouch around in his hands, taking note of the ancient markings burned into the side, almost like a brand. They seemed to tell a story or maybe it was a ritual of some sort. Sam didn't know for sure. He was surprised, though, that as old as it appeared the stiff pouch was still in one piece. A piece of leather cord was tightly wound several times around the top, sealing the opening of the bag, and he found it difficult to get a good enough grip on the leather to get it open. He tugged, the old cord stretching and finally breaking.

At first glance, the contents of the small pouch appeared to be just a collection of dirt and twigs, gathered there through years living in the ground. But Sam knew better; knew there was no way that so much stuff could have collected in such a well sealed container. It had to have been placed there by someone. Which meant it must mean something. But he didn't have time to study the contents more, as his focus was interrupted by the sound of Dean's screams coming from somewhere off to his left. He tossed the bag haphazardly into his backpack, barely taking the time to re-close the bag, and took off running.

xxxxxxxxx A few minutes earlier xxxxxxxxx

"I think I see something over here!" Dean hollered over his shoulder as he made his way quickly off the path, and towards the movement he'd noted. He barely heard the muffled response from Sam who was several feet away inspecting his own find, his field of vision obscured by the mass of foliage between the two brothers.

The bush moved again and Dean quickened his pace, while softening his steps at the same time; a challenge only mastered by a rare few, Dean Winchester included. He kept his eyes glued to the waving bush, squinting in an effort to see the cause of the movement in the completely windless forest. It was that stalwart determination to not miss whatever was in the bush that caused him to miss the danger directly in front of him and as his foot fell, mere inches from the object of his scrutiny, he realized too late that he should have paid attention to where he was walking.

He heard the snap first, creaking hinges echoing far too loudly in the silence of early evening, and he went down hard, head smacking the ground with a resounding thwack. It seemed like an eternity that he lay there, partially buried by the loose ground covering of leaves and pine needles, oblivious to anything around him. But he was soon pulled out of his oblivion as another sense took control. There was pain; pure and savage and starting mid calf before spreading itself throughout his entire body, and God dammit how could an injury to his leg possibly make his entire body hurt.

The sound of screaming filled Dean's ears, agonized, carnal, and it took him several minutes before he realized that the screaming he was hearing was his own. By then, Sam was by his side, pulling Dean's shoulders into his lap and worrying frantically as only Sam could do.

"Dean! Oh man, Dean, what happened? How bad does it hurt?"

Dean sucked in a breath of air, begging himself to stop screaming. He had to get ahold of his emotions for Sam's sake if nothing else. "I'll be OK," he lied, gritting his teeth. It was crap, and Sam could see right through it. Of that, he was sure. But it was the best he could do under the circumstances. "Just help me up, Sam. I think I just need to walk it off."

Sam's eyebrows shot up into mountain sized peaks as he looked down at Dean's leg and then back to his face. "Dude, have you seen your leg?" he asked incredulously, the little bit of laughter in his voice clearly forced.

He hadn't even bothered to look. Didn't really want to. But Sam's question contained so much hidden fear that Dean couldn't help but cast his eyes downward to rest on the carnage that he had once called a leg. His stomach flip-flopped and somersaulted, performing a triple aerial before deciding that his breakfast and lunch should make an appearance and suddenly Dean felt himself being rolled onto his side as he emptied the contents of his stomach on the ground. He dry heaved for several more minutes, once he'd completely emptied every last speck of matter from within, and it was only after multiple gulps of dry, putrid air that Dean managed to regain control of his body.

Chancing another glance down, Dean was relieved to find that a second look, at the very least, didn't cause another reaction within his gut. It wasn't a pretty sight, his left leg, and it was all he could do not to turn away again. And yet, he found himself mesmerized by the sight at the same time.

It looked like a bear trap. Except, whatever the intended hunt was must have been huge because this was bigger than any bear trap Dean had ever seen. The black iron contraption was old; antique. Its huge, rusted, triangular teeth had embedded themselves deep into his calf, slicing through the muscle, nerves and tendons before coming to rest against his bone. Come to think of it, he'd heard a sickening crunch somewhere in there and he now realized the heavy trap had sprung shut fast enough to actually break the bone. Blood stained his jeans, spreading quickly and pooling on the ground beneath him.

Dean let his head flop back into Sam's lap with a tortured groan. "Just get the damn thing off my leg," he moaned

"Dean, I–" Sam hesitated, his hands hovering anxiously over the trap and then drawing back. "Dammit man, I don't know how to do this without hurting you more."

"Just fucking do it!" Dean growled, his hands clenching tightly at the debris on the ground.

Sam stood up slowly, shaking as he removed Dean's head from his lap and rested it against the ground, positioning himself over Dean's outstretched leg. He paused, studying the contraption more closely before attempting to open it. Sam didn't know a whole lot about bear traps, but he knew enough to know that if he didn't get it fully open, and the leg out, on his first try, the contraption would slam shut again and Dean would be in for a whole world of hurt.

"Fuck, Sam, just get it off!" Dean yelled again, slamming a fist onto the ground. He could feel his entire body shaking as adrenaline pooled inside, numbing the pain just slightly. But he knew that would never last. It was now or never.

Dragging a hand over his face, Sam looked back at Dean, hating what he had to say next. "Man, I can't do this on my own."

"What?" Dean demanded, voice alternating between repressed fear and anger. "Please, Sam. You have to get it off."

"I know," Sam apologized. "But it's a two person job, Dean. There's no way I can do this myself...short of standing on the levers, and I know you don't want me to do that. It'd jar your leg too much. You're gonna have to help me."

"Aw shit, Sam." Dean closed his eyes, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. For a minute it seemed like he wasn't going to open them again and Sam felt his breath hitch, wondering how the hell he would get the trap off if Dean passed out. And then Dean's eyes shot open again. "Alright, Sammy. Just help me sit up."

Sam did as Dean asked, giving his brother a pass for the Sammy comment. Dean took a minute to rest against Sam before drawing the strength to sit up on his own. "So whado I needa do?" he asked, slurring his words just enough to make Sam worry.

"These levers here, there's one on each side. You need to hold them down...and then I should be able to pry the teeth apart and get your leg out."

Dean nodded his head quickly, not trusting his voice. His fingers fumbled a little before they found purchase on the two blood slick levers and he pressed down, repressing another yell as the movement jarred his leg. He looked at Sam, moist eyes pleading and saying what he couldn't speak out loud. _Please, Sammy, just do it quickly. _

Understanding the plea, Sam nodded his head with conviction. "Close your eyes."

Bile rose in Sam's throat as he reached down to grab the trap, wishing it wasn't necessary to dig his fingers into the flesh on Dean's leg just to get a good grasp on each side. But the teeth were in deep, and there was no other way. He afforded himself one more glance at his brother's face and immediately wished he hadn't. Dean was pale, too pale. Sweat sheened off his forehead as he sucked in short, ragged breaths. His face was contorted in unmasked pain and Sam knew he didn't have long to get the trap off his brother's leg before he really did pass out.

"On three," he whispered, finding a firm grasp on each side of the metal beast, making absolutely certain he was ready. "One..." He pulled hard, jumping the gun on the count so that Dean didn't have time to think about pain. The teeth pulled free with a sickening sucking sound and Dean screamed, the tortured yell echoing loudly through the forest. Then he went silent as he passed out and Sam felt himself grateful for the small bit of reprieve the action granted his brother.

The trap had snapped shut mere inches off of the leg, Sam just barely escaping having his fingers meet the same fate as Dean's now shredded calf. He allowed himself a few seconds to catch his breath, to regroup and decide what exactly he would do next. It was getting dark; they couldn't just stay here. But Dean was out, and they were a ways off from camp. At least twenty minutes away if he walked fast, and he couldn't walk fast. Not carrying Dean. _Shit_.

Sam pulled off his jacket and wrapped it tightly around Dean's leg, staunching the flow of blood as much as possible with his limited tools and once again having to swallow against the acidic bile creeping up his throat when he felt just how limp and floppy his brother's leg felt. It was like there was nothing there to support it's shape any more. But there was nothing Sam could do here. He had to get Dean back to camp, back to the first aid kit. Crouching down, Sam grabbed Dean's limp body and slung him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Dean moaned slightly, but otherwise stayed unconscious. Sam was grateful for small favors, knowing that as difficult as it would be to carry his brother's muscular frame so far, it would be even harder to try and convince the stubborn bastard to _let_ himself be carried if he was conscious.

It took close to an hour to get back to their camp, Sam making slow but steady progress as he stumbled over the uneven ground of the forest. He kept his eyes straight ahead, only one thought in his mind that of getting Dean back to camp. Back to what little medical aid they had. Darkness had enveloped them fast on the way back, and Sam had had to stop once to pull the flashlight from his bag before slinging Dean back over his aching shoulders for the rest of the journey.

Sam's legs burned by the time he made it back into the camp and he made a beeline for their tent, dropping Dean as gently as possible onto one of the waiting sleeping bags and running back outside to check the salt line perimeter, just to be sure it was still intact. Confident that it was, Sam returned to Dean's side.

As Sam turned off the flashlight he reached above him, turning on the lantern that hung from a rope across the ceiling of the tent and filling the space with bright halogen light and giving the first good look at Dean that Sam had gotten. The older hunter didn't look good. He'd lost a lot of blood and the sweat that had once just been contained to his face now drenched his entire t-shirt. Every now and then his entire body quivered, a sure sign he was going into shock.

The jacket Sam had wrapped around Dean's leg was now drenched in blood and Sam removed in carefully, his hands becoming slick with the too dark, sticky substance before he'd even touched the actual limb. It scared Sam how dark the blood was, knowing that bright red meant oxygenated, but dark red did not. Dean wasn't getting enough oxygen in the blood in his mangled led.

Taking out his pocket knife, Sam cut away what was left of Dean's jeans and leaned over the leg to inspect it. The wound looked far worse in the light of the lamp. Sam inched closer, careful not to get in the way of the light as he studied the damage. His hand went to his mouth and he gagged, unable to hold it in any more, and he quickly made his way from the tent and lost his own lunch outside. Only when Sam was certain he would be okay did he make his way back into the tent, hands shaking uncontrollably as he opened the First Aid kit in search of the supplies he would need, unsure just how to sew on a leg that was barely hanging on by threads.


	2. Chapter 2

**_OK, here's the next chapter. I'm flattered by all the excited responses I got on this story. In honor of the alerts working again I'm posting just a little earlier than expected. Hope chapter 2 is jsut as well recieved. As always, don't forget to send in those reviews - I thrive on them. Thanks so much! _**

**_I don't own the boys so please don't sue. Enjoy..._**

Reaching into one of their packs, Sam grabbed for a bottle of water and came out with the flask of holy water instead. Without a second thought, Sam pulled the flask out the rest of the way and began to unscrew the cap. There was no time to search for a different bottle; hell, there had barely been time to find that one. Dean was losing blood fast and he had to do something now if he stood any chance of saving his brother's life. Sam knew there was no need for the holy water, that the trap, trouble though it may have been, was simply left carelessly behind from someone's hunt. An accidental oversight when there may have been too many traps to count. There was no way it had been placed there by something evil.

But that knowledge came to a screeching halt as the contents of the flask began to sizzle and steam as it met with the blood pouring out of the gaping wound. Sam jumped, his eyes opening wide as he watched the holy water attack the tainted blood. _The damn trap was cursed!_

"Oh geez, Dean, I'm so sorry," he cried out, hands flailing as he searched for something to help stop the burning. He finally found a bottle of drinking water in the duffle beside him and spun the cap off, only to pause as he realized the holy water was doing a necessary job.

"Sammy," The additional pain brought Dean around and his eyes snapped open, frantically searching for his brother.

"I'm here, Dean," Sam assured his brother, flinching in sympathy as he considered just how much pain Dean must be in. His hand fell to Dean's shoulder, rubbing it in comforting circles and trying to draw his brother's attention from the pain of his leg. "How ya doin there big brother?"

"It hurts, Sam. God, it fucking hurts." Dean squeezed his eyes shut, fisting the sleeping bag tightly. The action afforded him no reprieve, but he continued nonetheless, lacking any alternative solutions to make it through the pain.

Sam began to panic more, the simple fact that Dean was admitting to being in pain making the situation all the more real. Dean never admitted pain, and not only was he acknowledging it's presence, he was cursing it with everything he had. This was bad.

"Hang on, man. I'm gonna take care of this. I promise." Sam looked back down at the leg, relieved that the holy water had finally stopped reacting with the evil remnants, but he still remained panicked. _Dammit, he's losing so much blood. I can't stitch this up...and we're in the middle of freaking_ _nowhere. What the hell am I supposed to do?_

Sam turned back to the duffel bag, desperately searching for some sort of salvation he might have missed the last five times he'd gone through it, and came up only with his cell phone. Blood covered fingers frantically punched buttons, hoping against all hope that the no service signal would miraculously transform into full bars, but he was without luck and Dean was getting worse by the second.

"OK...ok...you can do this, Sam," he chanted in a soft voice to himself, hoping Dean was too out of it to realize just how freaked out he really was. Every time he looked at Dean's leg it seemed just a little bit worse, and it absolutely scared the shit out of him. The bone was clearly broken, probably shattered; that much was obvious by the way the leg had flopped around like some boneless ragdoll when he'd picked Dean up earlier. And as far as the teeth of the trap had sunk into the flesh there was barely any skin or tendon left to repair. The damage was far beyond Sam's limited surgical skills and with a thick swallow he realized there was really only one thing he could do: put a stop to the blood flow.

"Dean, man, this is going to hurt," he warned, unbuckling his belt and pulling it from around his waist. _There's no other way,_ he assured himself as he slipped the belt as gently as he could under Dean's leg and hating the fact that the move still elicited a sharp hiss from his brother.

The older hunter nodded once, the only reassurance he could give Sam. Coherent thoughts were not his strong suit at the moment, and he was certain coherent words would be next to impossible. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Dean braced himself for what he knew was coming. But there was no preparing for the pain that was to come as Sam tightened the leather belt around his leg, just above the point of injury. Dean screamed, panting hard, his good leg and both arms writhing as the agonizing pain coursed through them as well. He let it out, long and hard, the deafening scream going on for almost three minutes before Dean was finally able to regain composure. Even then, he still wasn't able to pull in a full breath of air.

But Sam wasn't done. He couldn't be if he wanted to save his brother's life. This was going to hurt like hell. Sam pulled a long sleeved t-shirt from the duffle and folded it several times into a long, rectangular bandage before sliding it under Dean's leg as well. This one, Sam wrapped directly around the wound, tying it almost as tight as he'd tied the belt. Dean screamed again, but it lost its edge much quicker than the last. He was close to unconsciousness, barely holding on by a thread. Sam suspected Dean was only conscious out of a noble obligation to Sam, and it killed him to think his brother was letting himself suffer just for that.

"Almost done, Dean," Sam reassured, bunching up the bottom of the sleeping bag Dean lay on and stuffing it under the leg, propping it up. Dean barely let out a yelp on the last move, concentrating too hard on making his tightening lungs work as red and yellow spots began to dance in front of his eyes.

"Sammy–"

"I'm here, Dean. I'm right here." In a flash, Sam was in front of Dean's eyes, putting on his best impression of confident little brother. He'd grabbed a clean t-shirt and a bottle of water, and he poured some of the water onto the shirt, wiping Dean's sweat-soaked forehead with it as he offered soothing words. Producing four Tylenol caplets, Sam reached down and helped Dean to sit up, pulling him into his lap and letting the older man lean limply against his chest.

"Here, take these," he offered, placing the four pills into Dean's mouth and helping him with the water bottle. "We don't have anything stronger. I'm so sorry."

Dean choked on the pills as they went down, his swallowing reflex as lethergic as the rest of him. He coughed hard, wincing in pain as the action caused more knife-like shards to shoot through his leg. "Don't...be...s– sorry," he ordered weakly. "Not...your fault. Mine."

"It wasn't your fault either," Sam protested, pulling Dean tighter against him and dabbing at his forehead more with the soaked cloth. "I think it has something to do with whatever we're out here hunting."

"Th– the bear?"

"Yeah, Dean, the bear. Or whatever it is."

"Y– youuu think...iss ow...therrrre?" Dean asked, his words beginning to slur as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

Rubbing Dean's chest comfortingly, Sam shushed him. "I don't know, Dean. But we're safe here for the night. And first thing tomorrow morning I'm getting you out of here. Just sleep now. You're safe."

The fight for consciousness was lost and Dean's eyes slid shut at Sam's final words. They sat for several more minutes like that, Dean pulled into Sam's lap, asleep, and Sam rubbing his chest gently. They might have stayed that way all night if it hadn't been for the loud crash outside the tent.

Sam jumped, forcing himself to relax when his movement made Dean moan in pain. With quick, but gentle motions, Sam lowered Dean back to the ground and grabbed a flashlight and a gun loaded with multiple rounds: silver, rocksalt, consecrated iron... Sam didn't know what they were dealing with, and he figured better safe than sorry.

He crawled out of the tent cautiously, letting his eyes adjust to the moonlight and hoping he wouldn't need the flashlight. At first glance, Sam could see nothing out of the ordinary surrounding them, and after making another check of the saltline perimeter he turned to go back to Dean. That's when Sam first noticed their missing foodbag.

They'd hiked it twenty feet up in a tree when they first arrived, one of their few attempts at protecting themselves from the natural creatures that roamed the forest. Real bears and wolves had a tendency to come after food packs, and the last thing Sam and Dean needed was to deal with live threats in addition to supernatural ones. But now the bag lay torn and tattered several feet away outside of the salt circle. The food was still there, the culprit nowhere to be seen, and somehow Sam knew it was compliments of the creature they were hunting. What worried him, was that the bag had initially been within the circle. The fact that it was outside of it now seemed to be a taunt, hinting to Sam that whatever the creature was, it could get to them through their protection line.

Sam tightened his grip on the shotgun as he rewalked the perimeter, more cautiously this time. By now his eyes were fully adjusted to the dark, aided by the minimal light the moon provided, but he could see nothing out in the woods. Whatever had grabbed the pack was gone. Sam turned, needing time to come up with a plan, and returned to Dean in the tent. _Man, what I wouldn't do for my laptop and some internet right about now._

After ensuring Dean was as alright as he could be, Sam grabbed his backpack and retrieved the leather pouch he'd found earlier, hoping it might offer some clue as to what they were dealing with. He had no idea if it was even related, but once again that gut feeling was telling him the bag was important. It was hard to figure out what any of it meant without proper research materials, but Sam worked hard to dredge all available knowledge from the depths of his brain as he studied the pouch.

Based on the stiffness of the leather and the noticeable aging of the color, Sam could tell it was old, probably at least as old as the bear trap had been. The designs burned into the pouch seemed to tell a story and Sam wondered if it might have been Indian. The Algonquin tribe had inhabited these woods over a hundred years ago, and the pouch could easily date back at least that long. Sam wished he knew what the markings meant, but more than that, he wished he knew what the dirt inside meant. Upon closer inspection, he was now certain that the mixture inside had been put in there intentionally. It was not just debris, but a mixture of herbs and barks, some clay and at least three different types of dirt. But that wasn't what did it for him. The final element to convince Sam was the small bone hidden within the mixture. It was definitely one of the smallest bones in the body; maybe a finger or a toe, but right then Sam knew the bag was somehow involved in the haunting. Now if only he could figure out how to kill the damn thing.

Another crash outside the tent put Sam on edge. He grabbed the gun again and made his way back outside, one part of him hoping the creature would be there this time, and another part praying it wouldn't. The low growl he heard coming from behind the tent immediately gave him his answer. Their hunt had finally decided to show itself, and he didn't feel even close to being ready to face it.

Moving as stealthily as he could, breath held in, Sam made his way around the tent, gun cocked and ready to fire. He saw the eyes before he saw anything else - two greenish yellow orbs glowing brightly against blackness of the forest. The eerie color guaranteed a Supernatural being, and Sam drew his gun higher, aiming for just between the eyes. His finger squeezed at the trigger, ready to fire, but didn't get the shot off before his prey disappeared into thin air.

Sam's breath hitched as his heart began beating faster, his trigger finger releasing just enough to ensure the gun wouldn't go off. He paused, listening for an indication of where the creature had disappeared to, and heard the same grunt coming from behind him.

The hunter spun around, once again aiming his gun at the glowing eyes that had managed to circle a 180 around his protective barrier without Sam ever seeing it move. The moon shone brighter through the trees here, and Sam could finally make out a silhouette of the creature, finally confirming his assumption that it was some sort of bear. _But is it possessed? Some kind of transformation? A spirit? What? _

Eyeing each other, both figures moved slowly, each one looking at the other as though it were prey. Sam didn't dare attempt to fire again; not yet, anyway. He wanted to study it more, try and understand it so he could figure out a way to kill it. And somehow, Sam knew it was studying him, too, seeing him as a worthy adversary.

Step after step, skirting around the campsite the two hunters moved in unison. It went on for several minutes, this dance. As one would take a step the other would take a step, neither one willing to give the other a chance to breathe, to think, to plan. The bear was fast. It had already proven that. And somehow, Sam could tell that it could break the saltline perimeter if it really wanted to. He didn't know how, but he knew it could do it. The thing was toying with him.

Sam only had two things on his mind as he followed the creature around the campsite. Two goals that had been ingrained in him long before he'd gone on his first hunt; Protect your wounded, and kill the hunt. The former one was easy, for now anyway. They were moving slowly, and as long as Sam stuck to the outer edge of the perimeter, he had no trouble keeping himself between the bear and Dean. The latter posed more of a problem. The last time he'd been ready to shoot, the bear had been one step ahead of him, moving out of harms way before he could pull the trigger. And Sam didn't know which round, if any, would do the trick. If the first round didn't do it, would he have time to pull off another shot? And dammit, if the thing was a spirit, how the hell was he supposed to find the thing's bones and burn them? He'd have to dig up the whole fucking forest. _Shit._

Finally, the bear seemed to grow weary of the supernatural two-step they were performing, and it growled, a loud, unnatural sound that seemed to shake the treetops. Sam shivered as the noise rocked him to the core. He offered himself the fleeting thought of whether or not Dean had awoken at the sound, praying that he had not for the older man's sake. Dean, being Dean, would undoubtedly make an attempt at a rescue, his own health and safety be damned.

In the quiet that followed, Sam held his breath and listened for movement from inside the tent. Hearing none, he shifted his concentration back to the more frightening matter at hand. The bear was now pawing at the earth, grunting loudly as it continued to gaze at Sam, saliva drooling from it's mouth. Sam leveled the shotgun, moving as quietly and smoothly as he could, knowing that he might not have another chance if he didn't fire soon. He waited anxiously until he was certain he was ready and then squeezed the trigger before even he had a chance to think about it, sending a spray of rock salt directly at the bear's face.

With a blood curdling howl, the bear disappeared again as the salt made contact with its prey. Sam stood, transfixed, as he stared at the empty space where the bear had last been. But he knew it wasn't over. That had been too easy. It didn't take him long to recover, and he slowly began circling the camp, waiting out the bear, knowing it would show itself again. For what seemed like hours, and in reality was probably no longer than a minute, Sam waited. And then it was back.

If it was possible, he would say the eyes seemed to glow even brighter than before, and it took Sam a while to realize just what was making him see that optical illusion. It was only after another quarter circle of the camp, and a realization that he wasn't hearing the same deep growl as before, but rather a gutteral snarl, that Sam figured out the trick. Its eyes weren't brighter; just closer together. And lower to the ground, but set out of the face more, the positioning making them reflect off the light of the moon. It had changed. The hunt was no longer a bear. Sam now stood face to face with a snarling wolf.

Again, they came into the part of the camp most bathed in moonlight and Sam could now make out the hackles of the wolf's thick coat standing at attention. It was huge, standing as tall and thick as a Mastiff; and even in his limited experience Sam knew this was larger than any live wolf that roamed the woods. The thing snarled at him again, rabid like in sound and appearance, and Sam inched back a step, tightening his grip even more on the barrel of the gun.

The transformation from bear into wolf told Sam one thing; it was not a possessed animal. But it led to another question, because if this was a spirit of some sort not only did he now not know how to find the bones, now he didn't know what kind of bones to be searching for in the first place. But there was no time to worry about finding bones, right now. Right now, he just had to figure out how to get rid of the thing long enough to make it to morning. Getting Dean out of the woods and to a hospital was the mosti important task. And as his mind processed that information, he faltered, giving the wolf just enough time to plan its attack. Sam raised his gun just as the wolf lunged.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Here's another chapter, guys. The alerts are driving me crazy, and I totally wish I could wait until they are consistent, but the only constant to the dumb things seems to be the inconsistency. I just didn't want to make you wait any longer. So hopefully you'll find this somewhere. Read and enjoy, and don't forget to drop me a note! Thanks so much for your excitement so far. _**

**_Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, never even touched 'em. Darn_**

Sam closed his eyes and fired, the sharp crack of gun fire echoing loudly in the silence of the night. The sound fell in unison with a feeling of stabbing pain as the wolf landed gracelessly on top of the young hunter, its teeth sinking deep into the flesh between Sam's right shoulder and his neck and just barely missing the aorta. He howled in pain, breath catching in his throat as his eyes snapped back open to face his adversary, trying not to be shocked that it was corporeal. He'd known; just didn't want to admit it to himself until the thing was on top of him.

The wolf's yellow-green eyes gleamed, mere inches from Sam's own watering blue eyes, and for a second their gazes met, a challenge hidden within both sets. Sam elicited another yell, this one not in pain, but rather in determination as he gathered control of his arm and rewarded the snarling creature with a sharp and painful left hook to the face. It barely yelped, but backed off just enough that Sam was able to get his right arm between himself and the wolf. The left groped blindly for the shotgun that had fallen sometime between its last firing and the wolf's attack, certain now that his last shot had missed completely.

Vicious snarls and determined grunts joined forces in the cool night air, an odd sounding duet from two equally driven hunters, neither one gaining the upper hand, but both unwilling to lose the struggle. Sam now held off the wolf, keeping it from ripping him to shreds but not without penalty. His arm was clenched tightly between the sharp teeth, torn and bleeding from multiple puncture wounds. But as much as it hurt, Sam knew it was the only way to keep the gleaming teeth from finding purchase on some other, more vital part of his body. He accepted the sacrifice willingly.

Gritting his teeth through the pain, Sam continued to push back against the wolf, gaining some ground even as he felt his flesh tear more in its grip. With a final shove Sam finally freed himself from underneath the wolf, sending it flying only a couple feet but giving Sam enough time to grab the shotgun as he scrambled to his feet.

They faced off again, dancing the same two-step they'd done earlier, when the wolf was in bear form, only this time it was a tighter circle. In one arm, Sam clutched the gun tightly, finger on the trigger and ready to fire. His other arm he held against his stomach, attempting to staunch the blood flow just by pressing his arm tight against the rock hard abs underneath his t-shirt. He maintained eye contact, knowing that would be his only chance at knowing when the creature would pounce again. He would be ready this time.

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When Dean first heard the bear growl he thought he was dreaming, and he trembled at the sound but otherwise remained asleep. Minutes later, the bear's howl when Sam shot it brought Dean around with a gasp. His eyes shot open and he lay there for several minutes, panting hard, sweat pouring down his face as he tried to listen for more noise. He waited, desperate to make out some indication that Sam was okay. But confirmation didn't come in the form he was looking for when he heard Sam cry out in pain. Dean sat up too fast, making his head spin. He dropped back to the sleeping bag, breathing deeply through his mouth as he tried to repress the nausea that was threatening its way back into his throat. When he was confident the nausea had passed Dean sat up again, slower this time, and found himself grateful for accomplishing what should have been a simple victory.

Sam cried out again, quieter this time, more controlled, but Dean knew his little brother was in trouble. _Nuh uh. Not on my watch._

Their weapons bag lay just out of reach, and Dean had to stretch to grab hold of the strap, reminding him why he wasn't out there in the fight in the first place. His injury made itself know in an agonizing rush of fire coursing through every synapse of his mangled leg, making Dean bite his lip hard to keep from shouting. Tears came to his eyes as he held back the scream, pulling the bag closer and selecting his favorite pistol. Going on a hunch he went with the iron rounds, praying that they would be the best choice, and loaded a bullet into each of the six chambers.

"Hang on, Sammy, I'm coming," he whispered, lowering himself back down to the ground and flipping himself over onto his stomach. _Fuck! _Dean's leg protested mightily, full out begging him not to move period let alone do what he intended to do next.

Had it been anyone else out there Dean probably would have given in after the first pull across the tent floor. But this was Sam. Sammy. _His_ Sammy. Dean would go to the ends of the earth for the kid, and he'd be damned it he was going to let a twinge of pain in his leg keep him from getting to his brother. _Aw hell, who am I kidding. This is no twinge. This is the fucking grand canyon of twinges. _He'd never felt anything so excruciating in his entire hunting career, and he'd felt more pain in his twenty-seven years than twenty people would feel in a combination of their entire lifetimes. The whole leg felt like it was about to detach itself from the rest of his body as he reached out and dragged himself another couple of inches with his arms. He'd tried to use his good leg to help push himself along, but found it was more useful if he hooked the healthy foot behind the foot of his injured leg, bracing it just a little.

Despite it only being about two feet away, by the time Dean made it to the mouth of the tent he was seconds away from passing out from the pain. His breath came out in short gasps, and he realized that if he couldn't get a handle on his breathing hyperventilation might be a problem too. With a conscious effort Dean forced himself to breath through the pain, to get control of himself, because if he couldn't then he was no good to Sam.

There was another cry from outside, and Dean wasted no time throwing back the door flap, opening it just in time to watch the wolf lunge again, knocking the shotgun from Sam's grasp before the boy could react. The younger hunter landed flat on his back, head smacking against a large boulder and knocking him unconscious. The wolf landed on top of Sam, claws ripping at the flesh in his chest, gouging massive gullies that immediately began to bleed. Within seconds Sam's chest was crimson, and it was all Dean could do to tear his gaze away from his brother and focus on the creature causing the damage.

His focus wavered, weaving in and out, making it hard to keep his sights on the snarling wolf as it continued to tear his brother apart. He raised himself up on his elbows, leveling the gun and squinting to narrow in on the target. Only when he was certain he wouldn't hit Sam did he fire, hitting the beast square in the chest. It fell, rolling on its side, paws scrabbling furiously to get back up, but Dean had actually done damage. He smiled, grateful that the chosen bullets had been the right pick, and fired again before the creature could recover. The next bullet hit the wolf right between the eyes and it fell silent, lingering in Dean's sight for just a few seconds more before disappearing in a cloud of black smoke.

Relief flooded Dean's senses as exhaustion overtook him and he finally passed out, flopping like a ragdoll right where he lay, his last fleeting thought that he had to get to Sam.

There was no way of knowing how long either one of them was out; there wasn't even any way of knowing when the whole ordeal with the creature had started. Dean had been too out of it, and he doubted Sam had had the presence of mind to look at a watch as he was searching for a way to get rid of the wolf. But however long they'd been out, Dean knew it had been too long.

"Sammy..." Crying out his little brother's name, the older hunter came to first. He spit out the mouthful of dirt he had inhaled when he'd done his faceplant earlier and groaned loudly, somewhat disoriented in the first few seconds of his waking. Squinting as he looked at the sky, Dean could make out the barest hint of dawn peeking through the trees and he immediately felt panic. _How long was I out? Sammy! Where's Sammy?_

Dean pushed himself up on his elbows, fighting off another bout of nausea as he frantically searched for his little brother. He didn't have far to look. Sam lay right where he'd been when Dean passed out; he hadn't moved even an inch. From what he could see Sam looked dead, and that scared the shit out of Dean. "Sammy!" he called, forcing his hoarse voice to work.

When there was no response, Dean called louder, already dragging his body across the ground to where Sam lay. "SAMMY!"

Still, the young man didn't stir. Dean pulled himself faster along the ground, flat out refusing to acknowledge the torture that afflicted his leg. A lifetime passed before Dean finally crossed the five feet to where Sam lay. He'd had to work through at least half a dozen spells of dizziness on the way over and it was all he could do to stay conscious as he let himself flop beside Sam's motionless body.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, gently stoking his younger brother's hair, pushing the blood crusted strands out of the young man's face. Relief came in short spurts as a finger to the neck and a hand hovering over Sam's mouth at least revealed that he was still alive, and still breathing. _So why isn't he waking up? _"Come on, man, you gotta wake up. We have to get out of here. You promised, remember? You said so yourself, first thing in the morning we're outta here. Remember?"

Dean raised himself higher, enabling himself to get a better look at the wounds covering his brother's chest and neck. They were bad, but not as bad as Dean had thought they would be when he'd watched them happen. And not even close to being as bad as Dean's leg. But still... this was Sam, and that made everything look a hundred times worse than it really was. The wound on his neck would need stitches, and at least one of the slashes across his chest. But for now, the bleeding had slowed to barely a trickle, the majority of the blood on the outside now congealed and providing a protective covering.

"Dammit, Sam, you said everything was safe," Dean ground out, pounding the forest floor with his fist. "I don't know how to get us out of here. I don't know if I can do it."

Determination set in, telling Dean that he at least had to get Sam out of the open, back into the tent. With one hand he grabbed Sam by the collar of his shirt, wishing there was a different way to get him back to the tent. But Dean could barely drag himself along and there was no way in hell that he would be able to carry Sam. Dragging him was the only option. The trek was slow, an awkward combination of Dean dragging himself a few inches and then pulling Sam along behind. He kept himself awake with constant reassurances to his brother. "It's alright, Sam. Everything's going to be OK. I'm gonna take care of this. I just need you to wake up for me, little brother. Can you do that for me, please?" In reality, Dean wasn't sure if the reassurances were more for Sam or for himself, but that little fact didn't matter much. Whoever it was for, it gave Dean purpose. It was the only reason they made it back into the tent.

Dean was exhausted; far beyond exhausted. He was barely holding on, and there was no doubt the only reason he was even still conscious was the need to get Sam to safety. They barely made it into the tent. He scarcely managed to close the zip fly of the tent. And yet, somehow, Dean managed to channel the strength to drag his weary body into a sit, propping Sam up against his chest. He knew he had to clean the wounds. He was alert enough to know that if the rusted old bear trap was enough to taint his own blood that the wolf's saliva would most assuredly need to be washed from Sam's system with a healthy dose of Holy water. Dean just hoped there was enough left to do the job.

Miraculously, the flask lay mere inches from where they sat hunched, and swaying, and Dean was able to easily grab the metal container without putting any more strain on his fatigued body. He unscrewed the cap, pouring the water sparingly over all of Sam's wounds. Part of him hoped that the burning would rouse Sam, as it had himself. Dean didn't want to be alone in this. He didn't want to have to take all the world on himself. But Sam remained as quiet and unmoving as ever, not even flinching as the steam began to rise from his body. Dean's heart sank.

"Please, Sammy, please wake up. I can't get you out of here by myself, man. My leg's too screwed up. There's just no way. You've got to wake up and help me." The plea surprised Dean, not having even realized how desperate he was until the words tumbled from his mouth. It wasn't like him to beg for help, and admitting his weaknesses was a huge no no.

It was all Dean could do to muster the strength to wrap Sam's chest, neck and arm with heavy white gauze. He almost dropped the boy several times, cursing his brother's heavy and lanky frame as he tried desperately to hold the limp boy with one weak arm while wrapping with the other. Blood seeped through the gauze immediately, the wounds having reopened the minute Dean began to move Sam outside, but there was just no way he had the strength to stitch him up. His vision was already swimming just trying to perform the simple act of covering the wounds. The gauze would have to do.

After pressing one last square of gauze to the gash on Sam's head, Dean lowered his younger counterpart back to the ground, covering them both with Sam's sleeping bag. And that was the last of it. There was nothing more he could do, having gotten Sam to the only safety they had, giving his brother the best treatment his weary body would allow. And the second he had the tent secure everything caught up with him and Dean once again gave in, passing out with his head resting on Sam's stomach.

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Sam didn't know if it was the footsteps that woke him up or the hot afternoon sun beating down on their tent, making his already fevered body feel like it was about to catch fire. He came to with a strangled gasp, feeling a sizeable pressure on his bladder that was only a little bit caused by Dean's head resting right on top of his gut, and he tried to sit up. Stabbing pains in his chest and an immediate dizzying feeling in his head made him think twice about that terribly thought out move and he collapsed with a thud back to the ground.

"Dean..." he called out, his hazy memory trying frantically to recall the recent events that might have put him in this predicament. _Where the hell are we?_ Nothing came to him. The last thing he remembered was leaving the car behind and trekking off into the Canadian wilderness with a snarking Dean following closely behind.

"Dean!" he tried again, more insistent this time when he realized the last call had accomplished nothing. "Dean, wake up."

Sam's vision swam as he tried to turn his head enough to get a good look at his brother. The sleeping bag covered most of the older hunter, but Sam could make out Dean's face and it didn't look good. It was waxy and pale. His hair was matted to his head and sweat pooled from his forehead, creating a damp puddle on Sam's shirt. Or was that Sam's sweat creating the dampness all over his body. It didn't take a genius to realize that he, too, had a fever. _But what the hell happened? How did I get here?_

The footsteps grew louder, and Sam could now make out faint voices with them. And barking...were there dogs out there? Suddenly Sam's chest clenched, and something akin to fear began to overwhelm him. His breath came out in short, frantic gasps as the sounds of dogs got louder, and he was coherent enough to realize that this reaction wasn't normal. He'd never been afraid of dogs before. _So why now?_

Sam pushed off again, his natural instinct to use his dominant arm, and it was all he could do to hold in the scream as the muscles in his torn right arm rebelled against the effort, dropping him back to the ground with an unceremonious thud. Unconscious came to him fast, the strain on his over-taxed body too much to deal with. He wasn't awake to hear the frantic yells outside the tent as their position was compromised.


	4. Chapter 4

**_...And another chapter. I just wish the alerts would hurry up and catch up with the stories being posted. Grr. Please do me a favor and make sure to drop me a line if you're enjoying this. Or even if you aren't but have a suggestion for how it can be better. I really do appreciate any and all feedback - don't worry, I can handle it. Thanks so much to those who have taken the time to respond. Enjoy..._**

Sam woke again to the feeling that his body was crashing around in a series of waves, the unsteady bump bump bump jarring his tortured body. But somehow he felt numb, too. The pain was there, but it just seemed to float barely out of his grasp. Upon further inspection he found that he wasn't able to move his head or his limbs, and that scared him more than the strange rocking of his body. Hadn't he sat up just minutes before? How long had it been since he had last been awake? His eyelids felt heavy, like they'd been forced shut, held closed by a gigantic boulder sitting atop each one. With a monumental effort, Sam finally managed to pry them open, only to immediately shut them when the view flashing before him made him feel like he would throw up.

"Dean!" Sam's eyes flew open once again as the thought of his brother struck him with vast intensity and he repressed the urge to throw up again in order to call out for the older hunter. _Where is he? Where am I?_

A graveled, masculine voice broke the silence. "Hold on just a second, guys. Sam's awake." _I know that voice. Where do I know that voice from? How does he know my name?_ The view of the trees moving swiftly by in front of his eyes slowed significantly and he found he was finally able to take a deep breath of air without feeling the uncomfortable flip-flop of his stomach. He felt himself being lowered to the ground slowly, a final bump and he was still.

"Sam..." There it was again, that voice that seemed all too familiar, and yet so out of place in the middle of wherever the hell he was. Sam forced his wavering eyes to focus on the distorted face that looked down at him with concern. The man's jaw muscles were tense under his short beard and the brim of his cap hid his eyes in shadows, but Sam was finally able to focus enough to make out the features and he gave a tiny smile, praying this wasn't a dream.

"Bobby?" he asked hopefully, his squeaky voice betraying any confidence he might have tried to garner.

"The one and only," the older man admitted, more gentle than normal; softer than Sam was used to.

"Where's Dean?"

"He right here," Bobby assured, placing his hand on Sam's good shoulder and squeezing. "They've got him on another backboard.

"Is he...okay?"

Bobby's jaw tightened harder. His eyes lost their sparkle. "He's fine, Sam. Unconscious...but fine." The man was lying. There was no doubt in Sam's mind that the older man in front of him, a man who had helped raise the boys and who had, at times, been more of a father to them than their own father had been, had just flat out lied to him. But Sam was having none of it.

"Bobby, tell me," Sam demanded. "He's my brother..."

The older hunter shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, not wanting to say it, but knowing Sam would never back off otherwise. "He's bad, Sam. He's lost a lot of blood. Too much blood. And that leg of his..." Bobby's voice trailed off and Sam didn't push him anymore. He didn't want to hear that his brother was near death. His memory was shady at best, but the mention of Dean's leg had brought forth an image and he remembered the bear trap. But he didn't want to hear that Dean's leg was mangled so badly that it couldn't be repaired. He didn't want to hear any of that, because then it would be real. And Sam didn't want this to be real.

"He's going to be alright," Sam announced, wishing he could sound more convincing. "It's Dean, for Christ's sake. He's beaten death before. He'll do it again.

"I know, Sam. I know." Bobby's hand gripped harder on Sam's shoulder, the only way he knew how to offer comfort, and Sam relished in the touch.

"We've got to get moving again," Bobby announced, almost apologetically, as though he knew Sam didn't want him to let go. "It's going to be dark soon and you boys need to be in a hospital."

Sam nodded, closing his eyes as he did so. "Just take care of Dean," he whispered as he drifted back to sleep.

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Sounds of steady beeping aroused Sam the next time, accompanied by that same feeling of floating he'd had on the trip out of the woods, only maybe to a larger degree. His eyelids fluttered open cautiously, revealing the sterile whiteness of a hospital room.

"Sam?" It was Bobby's voice again, and Sam sighed in relief, grateful that Bobby's presence earlier hadn't been a dream.

Turning his head in the direction of the voice pulled at the stiffness in his neck, but at least he could turn his head this time. Another test afforded him the knowledge that his legs and his left arm were also mobile again, however the right arm remained immobilized. One thought garnered control of Sam's mind as he met Bobby's gaze. "How's Dean?" he demanded, hating how weak his voice sounded.

"Still in surgery," came the abrupt reply. "He's holding his own."

_Thank God he's still alive._ Sam winced, tried to hide it, as the strain in his neck became more intense, and he rolled his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes until the pain melted.

"How are you doing, kid? Anything hurt?"

Sam moved his head slowly from side to side, eyes still closed, as he mouthed the word 'no.' "I'm just worried about my brother is all."

"Sam Winchester, don't you dare even think about sitting in that hospital bed lying through your teeth. You're in pain; and anyone with a half decent set of eyes can tell that without a second glance at you."

Sam's eyes flew open, unsure whether to be relieved or terrified at the newest voice to join the room. "Missouri?"

"Who'd you think it was, boy? Santa Clause? How the hell do you think your scrawny butt got found in the first place? It's not like you two leave a forwarding address for every hunt you go on."

Sam merely blinked, still too drugged to process half of what the large black woman was saying. Bobby noted the confusion and held up a hand in Missouri's direction, making it clear that he obviously didn't know the woman well.

"Don't you dare hold your hand up to shush _me_," she snapped, glaring at the haggard hunter. "Just cause I called you for a favor once don't mean you have the right to order me around. Those boys mean just as much to me as they do you and I would have dragged them out of the woods myself if it weren't for this damn knee giving me so much trouble."

Bobby's eyes went wide, mouth agape as he studied the woman with a hint of fear. Sam had to laugh. And then curiosity struck, as words finally began to make sense in his fogged mind.

"Wait...how did you find us? How did you even know where to start looking?"

"I'm a psychic, child," Missouri chided him with a hint of pride in her voice. "How do you think we knew where to start looking?"

Still somewhat awestruck by the woman's presence, Bobby managed to find his voice and chimed in. "It's three in the morning, and I've been sleeping for hours when I get a phone call from your friend Missouri, here. Says, _'Bobby, you don't know who I am, but I know who you are and there's no time for formalities. John Winchester's boys are in trouble and you got to go find them._"

He paused, trying to decide whether to laugh now that the seriousness of the moment is over. He decides against it, but his eyes still sparkle as he remembers the bewildering first conversation he'd had with the psychic. "Course, first thing I ask her is where you boys are, and when she says she don't know..."

"...he demands to know just how I know you're in trouble then," Missouri adds, picking up the story again. "But child, I'd gone to bed that night with this real tightness in my gut. Like my insides were twisting all over the place. And then I woke up 'bout 2:30 after having this horrible nightmare. I'd seen you boys' faces floatin' around in my dream, back-splashed with red. And there were trees all around, and I just knew you boys were in trouble."

"At first I thought it was just crazy talk," Sam's head ping-ponged back to look at Bobby as the hunter stepped in again. "But then I remembered your daddy mentioning this psychic he'd gone to see once, and how she'd seemed to be right about everything she'd said. I was in my truck faster than you can say 'break out the rescue squad,' and started heading north - that was about the only thing she could figure on, was that you boys were somewhere north of the border. It took me three hours worth of phone calls before I managed to track down some sort of a hunt you boys might have been on with those limited specifications and then I was back on the phone to Missouri."

"We arrived about the same time." Missouri again. "And I'd gotten a rescue squad ready just before Bobby got there and we all headed for the rangers station, hoping he might be able to give us a clue exactly where you might have got to. Imagine our surprise when he said you'd actually stopped in and registered...well, not _you_ exactly, but Dean and Sam Clinton, and that was close enough for us. Said he remembered you two well, cause you didn't look like any campers he'd ever encountered before, what with your leather jackets and that car of yours. Turns out this is some serious camping going on in that place, and just about everyone pulls up in a station wagon or an SUV. Never really seen someone pull up in a classic car before. Anyway, he said you'd registered for a day pass on Wednesday - I guess you'd told him you'd be out by morning - and here it was Friday and there'd been no sign of you."

Sam interrupted them at that. "Wait, you said it was Friday? Are you sure you don't mean Thursday?"

"Boy, don't you think I know the difference between Thursday and Friday? Of course I mean Friday. It was 10am Friday morning when Bobby and that rescue crew set out in search of you boys."

"But we were attacked that first night. That means Dean and I were out for more than twenty-four hours before you found us."

Bobby's face fell. "And you boys were in rough shape, too. I don't know how either one of you managed to hold on for as long as you did. When we found you two, Dean was just about comatose the infection to his leg was so bad. And you weren't that much better, although you did a pretty good job dressing those wounds before you passed out."

Another flash of memory came to Sam and he froze. "I didn't dress my wounds," Sam admitted anxiously. I don't even remember getting hurt. Last thing I remember was the wolf...and then...then it's just blank after that. I think I hit my head."

Bobby nodded. "You did. There's a nasty gash on your temple. You must have hit a rock or something."

"That mean's Dean must have done it," Sam gaped at the revelation. "But how? He was in really bad shape. I didn't even think he was conscious. And somehow he managed to drag me back into the tent and take care of my wounds? He could have hurt himself worse!" Anger clouded his features as he realized just how much Dean had risked in his hero routine.

"Boy, your brother loves you more than anything," Missouri assured Sam, placing a hand on his knee in consolation. "He'd do anything for you. I think it would have killed him more if you'd died because he didn't do something. Cut him some slack."

"I'll forgive him if he survives this," Sam bargained. He only wished it was that simple. "Can you go find a doctor? Find out how the surgery is going?"

Bobby stood, looking all too eager to get out of the anxiety filled atmosphere, and if taking a walk to find out about Dean would do that for him he was happy to volunteer. He only made it to the door, knob clutched in his hand as a gentle knock sounded from the other side. He opened the door, revealing a very fatigued doctor on the other side.

"Dr. Hurley." Bobby seemed surprised, and maybe a bit disappointed, to find the doctor in question standing outside the room. "How is he? How's Dean."

The dark haired man ran a tired hand over his face. "Is his brother awake yet?" He asked, ignoring the question.

Bobby nodded, inviting the man into the room with a sweep of his hand. After a brief greeting between Missouri and the doctor Bobby introduced Sam, and the younger boy nodded his acknowledgment of the visitor, his chest and arm in too much pain to offer a hand in greeting.

"How is Dean?" Sam asked, getting right down to business. "Is he going to be ok?"

The mid-fifties looking man forced a weak smile as he nodded. "Your brother made it through the surgery," he assured Sam. "He's in recovery now, and they will be moving him to a room in SICU very shortly. You two will be on the same floor."

"That's good," Sam smiled, encouraged. "That's good, right? That he made it through surgery? When can I see him?"

"You can see him just as soon as they get him settled into a room. Providing your doctor feels that you're up to it."

"He won't have a say in it," Sam mumbled under his breath.

"I'm sorry?" Dr. Hurley asked, leaning in toward Sam in an attempt to make out what he'd just said.

Sam sighed. "I said I'm going to see my brother as soon as he's in his room."

The doctor shrugged, deciding to let the stubborn kid in front of him remain someone else's problem. "Suit yourself. Now there is something else we should discuss before you go in to see your brother," the man added, crossing his arms in noticeable agitation.

"You said he's going to be alright," Sam accused, narrowing his eyes at the man. "Is he awake?"

Dr. Hurley stammered, unsure what to make of the demanding young man. On the one hand, he was impressed by the fierce devotion he seemed to have for his brother. But on the other hand, the kid did a mean impression of a pit bull, and he found himself put off by the fact that he seemed to think hospital rules were made to be broken and doctors were merely minions whose sole purpose in life was to bow to their patients' every whim. The need to be professional won out and he shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, Sam. Your brother is not yet awake. But that's to be expected. He's recovering from a very serious infection, as well as a healthy dose of sedative from the surgery. There's no reason he won't wake up in time, but it could be several hours. Maybe even a day or two. You'll just need to be patient. Can you do that?" The doctor eyed Sam sternly, getting in his knocks as subtly as possible.

Sam nodded. "I'm used to waiting on Dean," he assured the man, knowing it wouldn't be a wise move to expand on that. _Sure doc, I've had lots of experience waiting on my brother to wake up from massive injuries. Most recently he was in a coma after a demon practically tore his chest open and then had one of his kids drive a mac truck into the side of our car. So no worries, this is old hat for me._

"That's good Sam. But there's another thing we should discuss."

Closing his mouth, Sam looked at Dean's doctor expectantly, waiting. And the pager on Dr. Hurley's waistband went off. He excused himself, pulling his coat back to read the display on the contraption. "I'm sorry Sam, It's an emergency. This is going to have to wait. Just please...wait to talk to me before you go in to seen Dean."

A pinched smile held strong on Sam's face until the doctor exited the room and then his mouth went flat and Sam became a flurry of action. He refused to acknowledge the pain that ebbed its way through his entire upper body as he raised the head of the bed so he was sitting. "Bobby, do I have clothes here? I need to be ready as soon as Dean gets put in a room."

Bobby knew better than to argue with the boy and, against his better judgement, he crossed the room to the duffle sitting on top of the chest of drawers. He pulled out a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt and returned to Sam's side, ready to assist the obviously hurting young man into the loose fitting clothes.

Missouri wasn't nearly so fearful. "Sam Winchester, what on earth do you think you're doing even thinking about getting out of bed so soon. You just had surgery yourself. And you heard the doctor. He asked you to wait until he got back before you went to see Dean."

"And I will wait for him," Sam assured her, allowing Bobby to help him slide the shirt on over his head. Missouri's smug smile lasted mere seconds before the thoughts in Sam's head slammed into her own subconscious. _Just as long as the doctor gets back before Dean does._

"I heard that," the plump woman reprimanded. "Sam, you're no good to Dean if you push yourself too hard too fast. Please just think about what Dr. Hurley said...for your brother's sake if nothing else."

By now Sam had his sweat pants on, too, and he was leaning heavily against Bobby as the older man helped him into a waiting wheelchair. His right arm, strapped tightly to his chest, was hidden under the t-shirt while the left arm reached back to help lower himself into the chair. "I'll make you a deal," he offered, already panting under the stress of the movements. He was unwilling to completely back down and yet he also recognized the signs of a stubborn Missouri.

She crossed her arms sternly, and waited, eyebrow cocked in annoyed curiosity.

"You two let me see Dean as soon as he gets down here, and I'll let you keep an eye on me. If you honestly think the pain is getting unbearable for me, I'll go back."

Bobby eyed Missouri, feeling her out for her opinion. He thought it sounded like a fine plan, but he had already learned not to second guess the woman. She nodded, lips tight. It was clearly against her better judgement, but it was a fair compromise. The Winchester boys were stubborn - the whole lot of them, and as much as she dared to order them around for their own good she still knew when she was beat. And she _was_ beat. "Alright boy. But you have to _listen_ to me when I tell you it's time to go. You hear me?"

Sam smiled. "Yes ma'am. Now can you go check and see if Dean's in a room yet?"

xxxxxxxxxx

Twenty minutes later Bobby was pushing Sam's wheelchair down the hall to Dean's room, four doors down. Missouri walked beside him, one hand laid gently on Sam's shoulder. The transport crew was just leaving Dean's room as the three arrived and one of them held the door open for them. A single nurse remained in the room, adjusting her young patient's blanket and checking that all the tubes and wires were firmly in place. She turned when she heard the troop enter, body between Dean's bed and the boy's visitors, offering a sympathetic smile to Sam.

"You're his brother?" she asked, having heard that there were two young men found in the woods and putting two and two together.

Sam nodded absently, his eyes already locked on Dean's pale face. "How is he?"

"He's holding his own," She assured Sam, moving to skirt around the trio. "I'll leave you alone. Just call if you need anything."

As the nurse moved Sam heard Missouri and Bobby both inhale sharply and he looked up at them, trying to read their faces.

"Oh God," Bobby said just as Missouri brought a hand to her mouth, her voice softening. "That poor poor boy."

From their higher vantage point the two adults could clearly see something that Sam could not, and he immediately grabbed the wheel with his good hand, dragging himself forward to Dean's bedside. He finally saw what had Bobby and Missouri so upset; what the doctor had been trying to tell him before he got called away on his emergency.

"Nurse!" he called frantically, feeling his throat tighten as he took in the sight.

She turned, a bit surprised at the fear in Sam's voice, and she fidgeted as she waited to hear what he needed.

_Nonono. This can't be happening. _His hand gripped tightly to the wheel of the chair, knuckles turning white in his anxiety. He could barely choke out the question, not believing he was even asking it. It was so unreal. "Where the hell is my brother's leg?"


	5. Chapter 5

_I know I'm taking a risk here. I just hope you will all stick with me until the end. I don't like writing stories that everyone has written, and this hasn't been done yet - at least not that I've read. So bear with me and just trust that Dean will hunt again... Don't forget those wonderful responses. You guys rock. _

_Don't own 'em...just wish I did._

Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from the bottom of Dean's bed. Blankets covered his brother up to his chest, so there was nothing concrete to see, but he could make out the outline of Dean's body and he knew immediately that something was wrong. The right leg looked normal; Sam could make out the shape entirely, a slight pudginess in the knee area and the peak where his foot stuck up from the bed. But the left...as his eyes traveled down he could see where the knee started, but five or six inches lower everything just stopped and the blanket smoothed out. There was no sign of a leg below that point; no foot.

Tears welled up in Sam's eyes as he glared at the nurse, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction. "What the hell happened to his leg?"

Missouri lowered a shaky hand to Sam's shoulder, her realization that he needed to be calmed down fighting a maternal desire to react the same way Sam was toward the nurse. "Sam...," she warned gently. "It's not her fault."

"Then whose fault is it?" Sam demanded. "Hospitals are supposed to help people. You don't just go around cutting people's legs off."

The young nurse held her ground, kneeling in front of Sam and placing a hand on each of his knees. "I haven't had a chance to be briefed on your brother's case," she said apologetically, sadly. "But I can assure you that the doctors in this hospital did everything they could to save your brother's leg. They're good; they know what they're doing here."

"Well they obviously didn't do enough," Sam spat out, refusing to be consoled by a woman who was clearly _not_ on Dean's side. "I want to speak with his doctor. Now!"

"I'm so sorry. I'll get him for you." She stood, making great efforts not to look shaken, and left the room.

Bobby stepped into Sam's line of sight and hovered over the young man, trying to cover up his own fear so he could help Sam through this. "Sam, you were both unconscious when we brought the two of you in. He'd gone more than thirty-five hours without antibiotics or proper medical care..."

"He was fine, Bobby," Sam interrupted, not even seeming to care about the tears streaming down his face. "I took care of the injury myself. He was fine." The second time he said it seemed to deflate, as though Sam was trying to convince only himself, yet wasn't doing a very good job at it.

The older hunter shook his head firmly as Missouri tightened her grip on Sam's shoulder. "Think about it, Sam. He _wasn't_ fine, and you know it. Even when you first pulled his leg from that trap, he wasn't fine. And you didn't see his leg the way we saw it. You don't know what it looked like by the time we found you."

"No. NO!" Sam screamed, shrugging out of Missouri's grasp and turning back to his brother. He grabbed Dean's limp hand in his own, babbling. "You have to put it back on," he insisted, voice growing louder with every word he said. "Just sew it back on. Tell them, Bobby. You _have_ to make them reattach his leg. He can't live like this. You _know_ Dean. He can't _be_ like this. It'll kill him."

"Sam, please, you have to calm down," Bobby insisted. "They're going to kick you out of here if you can't get control of yourself." A hint of moisture welled in the older man's eyes and he blinked hard, trying to gain control of his emotions.

The younger man did calm down, if only because Bobby's warning rang true. It wouldn't have been the first time he or Dean had been kicked out of the other's hospital room for making a scene. But now Dean needed him, and he couldn't let his own emotions be the reason why Dean was left alone. "I just don't understand how they could do this to him," Sam cried pitifully.

"Child, your brother is a fighter," Missouri soothed, once again risking placing a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder, fighting off her own set of unshed tears and not having the same success as Bobby. They fell, landing on her ample bosom and creating a wet stain. "With your help, he's going to be just fine."

Sam nodded, turning as the sound of the door opening captured his attention. Dr. Hurley stood nervously just inside the threshold, arms crossed loosely as he tried to decide whether to be stern for Sam's blatant disregard of his order, or whether to be sympathetic. Softening at the tormented look in the younger brother's eyes, he decided to try sympathy first. He pulled up a chair and placed it directly in front of Sam, clenching his hands in his lap and pursing his lips.

"I'm sorry you had to see this before we had a chance to talk," Dr. Hurley began, forcing the hint of reprimand from his voice. "I wish I had been able to better prepare you for this."

_This. Is that the only term to put on losing a leg? This? As though it's just some casual _thing_ rather than a life-altering event?_ Sam nodded his head, desperately repressing the urge to reach out and tear the doctor's head off with his bare hands. "He won't survive this," Sam whispered, unable to make eye contact. "How could you do this to him?"

Dr. Hurley drew himself up and went into doctor mode, spouting the technicalities of the injury and the surgery. Bobby and Missouri listened intently. Sam drowned him out. "Dean's leg was gone before he ever made it to the ER," he announced, as though that would make it any less his fault that he'd actually done the cutting. "The trap he got it caught in did irreparable damage to the muscles, the tendons, the nerves. Both his tibia and the fibula were shattered at the point of impact. The lower half of his leg was barely holding on by threads of tissue. Infection must have set in early, and dragging his leg through the dirt probably didn't help much, either."

Tuning in just in time to hear the accusatory laced explanation, Sam opened his mouth to protest. "I didn't drag his...oooh," he paused. _Stubborn bastard must have done that trying to save me. Damn him! _He shut his mouth.

"Besides, the tourniquet around his leg had pretty much cut off all circulation. I'm sorry, Sam, the leg was dead. There's nothing I could do."

Sam gasped, remembering the belt he'd tightened around his brother's leg to stop the bleeding. His plan had been to loosen it every twenty minutes or so, just to make sure the circulation would remain intact. And then he'd been attacked, and he'd spent time fighting off the creature, and then was unconscious until their rescue. _It's my fault. I'm to blame for this._

All at once, Dr. Hurley saw the kid as vulnerable. He'd watched the animation of his face when he remembered applying the tourniquet. "Sam, that tourniquet saved your brother's life," he assured the distraught hunter. "I know it seems like a cruel twist of fate, but if you hadn't used it Dean would have bled out. He would be dead by now, instead of just losing his leg. You _saved_ him."

Sam didn't see it that way; not entirely anyway. To him, Dean alive was the most important part. Be he knew that to Dean, there was no in between. They were hunters. He knew nothing else, and to lose his leg was just as bad as losing his life. Maybe worse.

"You have to understand," Sam beseeched the doctor, "In our line of work we have to he in top shape. This just won't work for him. You've got to figure out some way to save his leg. Please, doc, there must be some way."

Dr. Hurley trained saddened eyes at Sam, now assured that he'd been rash to form a dislike to this kid. He was fiercely loyal to his brother, yes, willing to go through anything standing in the way of protecting the older sibling, but underneath he could tell the boy had a heart of gold. And it was breaking. "I'm sorry, Sam. There's nothing I can do. But in time, and with some physical therapy, he will be up and walking again. They're doing miraculous work with prosthesis these days. People run marathons. They climb mountains. His level of injury is low. There's nothing he won't be able to do if he puts his mind to it."

_Yeah, except get over the accident in the first place._ Sam's face fell. The doctor's words were doing little to encourage him and he feared that, if this is how he felt, Dean's reaction would be one hundred times worse. Dean was an extension of Sam, and Dean losing a leg pretty much felt like Sam had just lost a leg, too, and he was finding it impossible to wrap his mind around it.

Missouri spoke for the first time since the doctor had entered the room. "I think we're all just going to need some time to process this, Doctor. Thank you for coming to talk with us. We really do appreciate your kindness."

Taking his cue to leave from the woman, Dr. Hurley stood and awkwardly faced Sam again. "I really am sorry about your brother's leg. It's never an easy thing to face a loss, but I have faith in you. You will get him through this."

Truer words had never been spoken, but Sam found it hard to accept them just yet. He feared for the time that Dean woke up, for once in his life hoping his older counterpart would remain asleep for a long time; at least until Sam was able to gather his own thoughts and formulate a plan. _Dean, I'm so sorry. I never should have dragged you out into that forest in the first place. And now look what happened. _

Sam slumped forward in the wheelchair. His head dropped into his open hand, hair falling forward into his face. He ignored the twinge of pain the movement caused to his aching neck and chest, accepting the pain because he felt he deserved it.

"Come, Sam, let's get you back to bed. You've been up too long." Bobby turned the chair away from Dean without waiting for Sam's reply, but Sam said nothing anyway. That surprised the weathered hunter more than anything so far that day. He'd never experienced a Winchester just give in and accept being taken from another without a fight. But even without Sam's protest, Bobby felt the need to add, "We'll come back to see Dean after you've had a chance to rest. Missouri will stay here with him while you're gone."

Defeated, the young hunter allowed himself to be led out of the room and away from Dean. He didn't fight the leaving. He didn't fight Bobby's assistance back into bed. He didn't fight the way his face contorted in pain as he pulled at stitches still sore from their initial placement.

After making sure Sam was tucked safely into bed Bobby found a chair and finally sat, resting his tired head against the wall._ How long has it been since I've slept? A day? Two? It seems like weeks. _

"Hey Bobby?" Sam's voice projected weak, uncertain from the bed and Bobby picked his head up, wishing that it didn't feel like it weighed a ton.

"Yeah, Sam?"

"Do you think Dean will be alright? I mean, _really_, alright?"

"I think he's going to need time," Bobby answered by way of skirting the question.

"But you think in time..."

"I think Dean will figure out a way to live with this, Sam. It's not going to be easy, and it won't happen soon, but eventually he will accept it. This...this line of work you guys are in, injury is inevitable. He knows that; he's prepared himself for that."

Sam shook his head. "No Bobby, he's prepared himself for death. He's willing to die for the cause, but I don't know that he's willing to be crippled because of it."

Bobby shrugged, as though he didn't see a difference. He looked at Sam through eyes wise with age and experience. "Then you're just going to provide him with a reason to survive this."

It was a lot to carry on his young shoulders. Sam knew it; Bobby did too. They locked eyes for almost a minute, Bobby's insisting that Sam listen to him and Sam's desperately trying to gain strength from the older man. Finally, Sam nodded. Bobby was right; Sam just had to be strong enough to make Dean realize his life would go on.

"First thing you gotta do to help your brother, though, is get some sleep," Bobby added, nodding his head with an insistent shove towards the pillow that Sam was adamantly refusing to acknowledge. "Lay your head down and catch yourself some zzz's boy. I'll wake you up if anything changes with Dean."

Exhaustion seemed to overtake him as Bobby voiced his order, and Sam found he could do little to fight the urge to sleep. He set his head against the pillow and groaned, discovering just how difficult it was to get comfortable with half a dozen gouges etched into his chest and two craters for teeth marks sliced into his neck.

"Do you want me to find someone to give you something for the pain?" Bobby asked, jumping from his seat to help Sam find a comfortable position.

Sam shook his head, jaw clenched in determination to push his way through the pain without help. He found it odd that the pain was barely noticeable when he'd been with Dean, dealing with his brother's injuries, but now it had become intense, close to unbearable.

"It's been several hours since you were given something," Bobby tried again, reaching for the call button that sat beside Sam's bed. "I'm sure you're beyond due."

The young hunter's trained hand shot out with lightening speed, swatting at Bobby's hand before he could make the call. "I said no," Sam spat out through clenched teeth. "I need to be lucid when Dean wakes up. I can't be groggy. I can't be medicated." He cast pleading, puppy dog eyes on the man, knowing the expression worked on just about everyone, and Bobby relented grudgingly. But instead of moving his hand away as Sam had intended, Bobby's grip found its way to Sam's hand and closed firmly.

"Then you can take out the pain on me, boy. Squeeze with everything you got. I can take it."

Sam faltered, unsure what to make of the gesture. This was new; he'd never been offered the opportunity to be weak. Not so blatantly, anyway. Sure, Dean had his ways of subtly offering support when Sam was in pain, but their father's words had always been things like _suck it up, son, _and _pain is all in your head; you ignore it, it goes away._ Sam expected the same of his father's friends. This was just crazy.

And crazier yet was the fact that Sam snaked his hand into Bobby's and accepted the selfless offer without a second thought on the matter. He clenched down, feeling the pain diminish as Bobby drew it to himself. He fell asleep that way, hand clenched tightly to Bobby's, the act saying more than just 'give me your pain.' Bobby was telling him to use him for everything Sam needed; he may not have been his Daddy, but he was willing to play the stand-in now that the boys' father had passed. And he made a damn good stand-in.


	6. Chapter 6

_It seems like everytime I upload a new chapter the alerts slow down, so here's hoping they work perfectly this time. crosses fingers I'm encouraged by everyone's willingness to read on, considering I've permanently maimed our beloved Dean. Sorry guys - it had to be done. I just hope I don't let you down with the remainer of the story. There's plenty more to come. So read on, and please keep letting me know what you think. You guys rock! _

_Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, don't own the friends, but the story is all mine. _

Dean's fever burned hot, making a valiant effort to assist the antibiotics with ridding his body of infection, while creating a struggle to keep his body temperature under control. It took time for the infection to retreat from his body, but Sam waited patiently, allowing his brother all the time he needed to heal. Dean didn't wake fully until three days later. He'd wavered in and out of consciousness several times in that period, but only for a few minutes at a time, and he was never lucid enough to do much more than mumble incomprehensible words and circle unfocused eyes around the room. He'd said Sam's name a time or two, and his body had stiffened noticeably once when one of the nurses tried to change the bandages on his leg while he was conscious. But otherwise, there was no sign that he was even aware of his surroundings.

When he finally did come to, fully alert, he panicked. Sam wasn't at his side as he'd expected little brother to be, and though the younger was only a few feet away in his own bed, grudgingly obeying the compromise he'd made with his doctor, Sam's lack of presence unnerved Dean more than he cared to admit.

The two brother's now shared a room, not because either of their doctor's felt it to be the best solution, but because Sam had threatened to check himself out AMA if they didn't come up with a way for him to be with Dean at all times. After taking a few hours to rest and regroup the first day Sam had vowed to do whatever it took to help Dean through the injury, and doctor's be damned. He'd spent the entire first night curled up painfully in a chair beside his brother, angering his doctor when, after three attempts to order him back to his own room, Sam had blatantly announced that he no longer needed to be a patient. Except, the gashes in his chest had chosen that moment to pull and rebel and Sam had found himself on the floor panting in agony seconds later.

At that, the doctor had jumped on his only opportunity and had Sam transported back into his own room, administering a sleeping aid and pain killer to a protesting Sam. The boy had fought sleep, his system so used to mild doses of sleeping pills that they barely registered with him unless he allowed them to, and stumbled his way back into Dean's room as soon as he was certain the doctor was gone. From there, his doctor had reluctantly suggested that Sam and Dean be moved to a double room under the condition that Sam rest for an hour in his own bed for every fifteen minutes he sat beside Dean. Sam didn't like it, but Missouri and Bobby had both sided with the doctor on that, and he was too weak to protest.

But now, not being at Dean's side when he woke up, Sam was pissed.

"Sammy," Dean cried out with a gasp, eyes popping wide in terror when he realized his only lifeline was not next to him.

Sam jumped, his hazy restfulness clearing immediately as he scrambled out of bed to be at Dean's side. Despite his painful injuries, he made it across the room to the older hunter's bed faster than Bobby, who had been pulled from actual slumber at the sound of Dean's voice. Sam eased himself into the chair beside Dean's bed, forcing any sign of pain from his face because he knew that would be the first thing Dean picked up on if he didn't. This couldn't be about Sam; not now.

"Hey, Dean, it's alright. I'm here. You're safe." Sam's hands grabbed on tight to Dean's, needing the chick flick moment even if Dean didn't want it. He was surprised when Dean didn't pull away, and even more surprised when his brother's grip tightened considerably on his own.

"Oh God, Sammy, I thought I'd lost you. Are you okay?" Dean's voice came out weak and forced, but there was no mistaking the fear behind it and at that moment Sam knew one thing; Dean remembered everything.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam assured. "A little sore, a few stitches, but give me a week and I'll be as good as new. How are you feeling?

Dean paused to take stock of his situation. "Alright, I guess. I kinda feel like I'm floating."

"That's the pain meds they have you on. I felt that way too when I first woke up. You'll get used to it."

"Did we get it?" Dean asked, lowering his voice so that Sam had to lean in to hear him. For a minute, Sam hesitated, almost unsure what Dean was asking. The fight with the creature seemed like a lifetime ago. Sam had spent so much time in his last several days worrying about Dean's future, he'd actually managed to forget the reason why they were there in the first place.

"I'm not sure," Sam finally admitted. "There've been no more attacks, but it could just be lying in wait. You were the last one to see it. I was out cold."

Dean nodded, pulling his bottom lip under his front teeth in concentration. "So we might need to go back out there, just to be sure." It wasn't really a statement, but not really a question either. And Sam could sense some underlying fear in the tone.

"I'm getting help looking into it right now," Sam assured his brother. "We're not going to do anything unless we're sure."

"But it could still be out there," Dean prompted.

Sam sighed. "Yes, Dean. It could still be out there. But we're just not sure yet."'

"But if it is, we have to go after it again."

"Let's not worry about that right now," Sam encouraged, trying to get Dean's mind off that subject. He was getting dangerously close to a point where Sam might have to admit the details of Dean's injury, and he just wasn't quite ready yet. He wanted a few more minutes to feel out his brother's frame of mind before dropping the bombshell that would completely destroy him.

"Right now, we just need to be focusing on getting better." Sam sacrificed himself, wincing on purpose as he grabbed his chest with his gauze wrapped arm. The move was a success, pulling Dean's thoughts away from the hunt and back onto his little brother. Sam almost felt guilty, knowing that the last thing Dean needed to be doing was worrying about him.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Dean demanded, noting the forthcoming wince. "You don't look so hot. Maybe you should go lay down again."

Sam shrugged, shooting a half smile in Dean's direction. "I told you I'll be alright. But thanks for your concern."

"Your waking up is the calmest I've seen Sam since you got here. I think he's going to be just fine."

Dean turned his head to the other side of the bed when Bobby spoke for the first time, a look of shock on his face as he realized the man had been standing in the room the entire time without Dean noticing him. "Bobby, what are you doing here?" he questioned, unable to hide his surprise.

"He and Missouri are the ones who found us," Sam volunteered. "If it wasn't for their combined efforts you and I would both be dead for sure."

"Missouri? She's here too?" Dean's voice rose at the thought of the motherly black woman who never seemed to give him a break. She always knew what he was thinking seconds before it happened, and though he cared for the woman dearly, that omniscience of hers was unnerving.

"She just went to get some shut-eye," Bobby announced, inching closer to the head of the bed. "She'll be back later this evening."

"How did you find us?" Dean asked, suddenly realizing the sheer impossibility of the rescue. "We didn't tell anyone where we were going; we didn't leave a trail; there was nothing to go on."

Bobby smiled, and once again launched into the story of Sam and Dean's rescue, embellishing just a little more in this version than he had in Sam's version. Amused, Sam found himself wondering just how far-fetched the story could become after being told twenty times...or thirty...or forty, but he really didn't care because the long story gave him plenty of time to study Dean and prepare himself for what was to come next. He knew he couldn't put it off much longer or Dean would end up finding out through the hospital staff.

Sam also noted that Bobby had managed to gloss over the gory extent of their injuries, saying only that he'd found the two of them unconscious when he got there and that their injuries, if untreated, were life-threatening.

"You mean both of us were out for more than a day and a half?" Dean worried, eyes once again looking Sam up and down for any sign of residual problems from the delayed rescue. "How is that possible? How did we not wake up?" The unspoken question: _How could I not have taken care of Sammy when he needed me most?_

Bobby glanced from Dean to Sam and then back to Dean again, his eyes wise with experience. "I think your bodies just shut down for a while. It was a way for them to heal and get away from the brutality of the situation."

Dean nodded, visibly seeming to accept the solution Bobby offered. But Sam could sense the tenseness in Dean's shoulders and the choppiness of his head bob. "You couldn't have done anything differently," Sam chided his brother, realizing immediately that Dean blamed himself for not getting Sam out earlier. One Winchester placing blame on himself was enough, and this time it was Sam's turn.

"Your leg was so messed up; there's no way you could have even gotten yourself out of there, let alone me too. Don't blame yourself." The words poured from Sam's mouth before he could stop himself, and it was all he could do to keep from clamping a hand across his mouth when he realized his mistake. _Dammit. Shut up, Sam. Just shut up!_

Sam watched, breath held in, as Dean tried to move his head enough to see to the bottom of the bed. The mattress lay flat, and Dean couldn't see far enough to notice his leg. But that didn't stop him from asking the question. "It's weird," he began. "My leg really doesn't hurt all that much; just a dull throb. I guess it looked worse than it actually was." He glanced at Sam with pleading eyes, as though he knew what was about to come but he wanted Sam to tell him differently.

Sam clenched his fist and grit his teeth, swallowing the huge lump that had formed in his throat before opening his mouth to speak. Bobby moved closer still, preparing himself for whatever was to come because he knew Sam was in no shape to be fending off an irate and agitated Dean.

"Dean, about your leg..." Sam began, closing the hand of his good arm tightly around Dean's fist. _I can't do this. I can't do this. I CAN'T DO THIS!_

The elder Winchester looked at his younger brother expectantly, but even though Sam knew Dean was prepared for bad, he realized the older man had no idea exactly what was coming at him. His demand confirmed that. "Sam, don't even tell me it's gonna take time to heal. You know I go stir crazy just sitting around in a hospital. Just get me a pair of crutches and get me the hell out of here."

Shaking his head firmly, Sam bit his lip and tried desperately to force back the odd watering sensation forming in his eyes. "Dean, that's not it. Please, just...listen. I don't know how to say this."

That sobered Dean up fast, and his eyes grabbed onto Sam's and held strong. _What aren't you saying Sam?_

He chose to paraphrase the doctor, deciding that the less emotional he was telling Dean, the better chance he had at spitting it out. "There was a lot of nerve and muscle damage, and both bones were shattered," Sam began, trying to suppress the apologetic tinge to his voice. "We were exposed to the elements for a day and a half without medical care, and infection set in. They did all they could, Dean, but..."

"Uh uh," Dean growled, now glaring at his little brother. "Don't say it Sam. Don't you dare say it."

Sam would have done anything to obey Dean's command, even if it meant taking his brother's place. Tears welled in his eyes and he wiped them away angrily, pissed that his emotions had dared betray him when Dean needed him most. "I'm sorry, Dean. It just... they..."

"I mean it Sam," Dean threatened again, unwilling to hear the words and doing whatever he could to keep them lost within Sam's subconscious. _If he doesn't say it, it won't be true._

"Dean, they couldn't save your leg," Sam finally blurted out, looking to Bobby for support and reassurance that he'd done the right thing.

"That's not funny, Sam," Dean snarled, struggling to prop himself up on elbows weak from fever and lack of use. "Take it back. You take it back, you bastard."

Sam flinched as Dean lashed out verbally, wishing with everything he had that he actually _could_ take back what he'd said...and for that matter he wished he could take back the whole stupid hunting excursion he'd dragged Dean on. "Dean, you know if there was anything I could have done..."

But Dean wasn't really listening to anything Sam had to say; he didn't seem to care about much more than the matter at hand as he continued his rant. "How dare you say something like that to me?" he screamed, continuing to dwell on Sam's announcement. "You're my brother, Sammy. You of all people..."

"I'm so sorry, Dean," Sam cried helplessly, not even caring about the tears falling down his face now because he'd seen the moisture start up in Dean's eyes, and his brother would need to know he wasn't alone in crying. It was weird how their family worked; one sacrificing himself for another, one letting his guard down in order to make the other feel better.

Sam's mind was spinning out of control, desperately fighting for something to hold onto as he tried to figure out what to do next. Bobby seemed lost, unsure of himself in the presence of two grown men both about to lose it. Sam wished Missouri was here; more than anything he wanted the woman to appear in the doorway and tell Dean to get hold of himself. Hell, _he_ wanted to tell Dean to get hold of himself, that it wasn't the end of the world. But the words just didn't seem to want to form, and in some ways Sam knew it was because he didn't believe them himself.

Standing unsteadily, Sam inched the tiny distance between the chair and Dean's bed, drawing himself up to appear taller and wiser despite the pain it caused in his tender upper body. "Dean..." Sam began, but didn't get any further.

"I want to see for myself," Dean demanded, interrupting his brother, his voice shaking uncontrollably, his hands quivering to match. "Help me up."

"Dean, please..." Sam didn't know for sure why he was so against letting his brother see the leg for himself. Maybe it was because that was the final confirmation, and once Dean had looked there was no way Sam could pretend it wasn't true. Maybe Sam just wasn't ready to deal with the emotional turmoil Dean would undoubtedly experience; maybe he wasn't ready to deal with his own. But the younger man pleaded with his brother not to look.

"I have to do it," Sammy," Dean insisted. "Don't take this away from me." His voice still wavered, not nearly the strong facade of a hunter and big brother that Dean normally produced, but Sam gave in with a weak nod to Bobby.

Sam pressed the button on the motorized bed to raise the head up, but Dean was too stubborn and impatient to wait and immediately began struggling to right himself. Bobby sprang to action, gripping Dean under the armpits and lifted the weak young man with little effort. He didn't say a word as the outline of his missing leg came into view, but the reaction was still quite noticeable. With a low moan, Dean began shaking harder, his breathing becoming shallower and the heart monitor began shrieking.

"You've got to calm down," Sam quietly ordered as Bobby settled Dean back against the now erect head of the bed. Using his own weakness as an excuse to sit, Sam rested on the edge of Dean's bed and circled his fingers loose but firm around Dean's stiffened arm. "We're going to get through this, Dean. Together. You and me. I just need you to calm down for me. Breathe, Dean, breathe."

Dean turned glassy eyes on his brother, unaware of the moisture on his cheeks, or maybe just not caring. "Help me get the blankets off," he asked, voice flat and emotionless. The monitor slowed just enough to go into a steady rhythm, and Sam wondered if it would be enough to keep the hospital staff away. He almost hoped it wouldn't.

"Dean..." Sam warned, not liking where this was going. Even he hadn't seen Dean's leg without the blankets on it; having turned away or closed his eyes every time the nurses came to clean it and change the bandages.

"I have to see the whole thing," Dean continued. "It's not real until I see it."

Sam looked to Bobby, eyes begging him to _do something_, _anything_. After having settled Dean against the vertical mattress, the older man had crossed his arms against his chest, backing off a few inches but still hovering dangerously close to the two young men. He shrugged, offering his silent apologies to Sam as his body language told the boy there was nothing he could do. If Dean wanted to see the damage done to his leg, let him see.

_But what if _I_ don't want to see,_ Sam's mind protested, feeling himself begin to lose control again. He finally relented, knowing it was a bad idea even as he pulled the covers down from where they sat at Dean's mid-section. "You're really sure you want to see this now?"

"No," the older brother scoffed. "I don't want to see this now. I don't want to see this later. I don't want this to be happening period. But I don't have much choice in the matter, now do I? So it might as well be now."

Sam couldn't deny the logic, despite his continued misgivings, and he pulled the covers the rest of the way down. He found himself involuntarily closing his eyes as he got to the bottom, and then turned to face Dean before actually opening them again. It wasn't his to see first.

The look on Dean's face was one of pure devastation, and Sam was convinced he could actually feel his own heart breaking watching his brother's hopes and dreams get dashed so viciously. Just as Sam had been unable to tear his gaze away from the sight when he first saw Dean's missing leg hidden underneath the blanket, now Dean stared transfixed to his missing limb.

Following Dean's unwavering gaze, Sam finally forced himself to look too, mentally kicking his insensitivity when his breath hitched involuntarily at the sight. He recovered quickly, gripping Dean's arm harder in reassurance. The sight wasn't gory as he'd originally expected; at least not the part that was visible. The gauze wrapping Dean's newly acquired stump was clean and stark white, and the rest of Dean's leg looked perfectly healthy. There was no bruising, no blood, and aside from the aged scars from injuries past there was no sign his leg had experienced any trauma at all. The thing was, if it wasn't for the fact that some of his leg was physically missing there was no sign that anything had been wrong. Sam supposed that may have been the problem; nothing _looked_ wrong. It was as if the whole injury from the bear trap had never even happened because there was no sign of it.

"It's gone," Dean choked out, his voice barely above a whisper as he doubled over on himself, collapsing in his grief. "It's just...gone."

"I know," Sam said, just as softly. "I know, Dean. I'm sorry." He rotated, ignoring the pain as he gathered Dean into his arms and pulled him tight against his chest, softly murmuring his consolations to the distraught man breaking before his very eyes. This wasn't Dean; not even close.

"I'm scared, Sammy," Dean moaned, clutching tightly to his little brother, shaky hands fisting the material of Sam's t-shirt in desperation.

"I know you are, Dean. I am too." The revelation came as a shock to Sam, not believing that he'd just voiced that out loud. _You weren't supposed to let him know you're scared,_ Sam berated himself. _Dammit, Sam, you have to be strong. He needs you._ But the mental pep talk, if that's what you would call it, did little to alleviate Sam's fears, and he found it comforting to be in Dean's arms even if his brother was the one needing the comforting. They held onto each other for many minutes, longer than they'd ever held each other before. Both cried, both shook with the adrenaline coursing though their exhausted bodies, and neither one wanted to let go.

Don't forget those wonderful reviews - it's what the chica lives on!


	7. Chapter 7

_Hey guys! Here's another one for ya. Thanks for all those wonderful reviews and please, keep 'em coming. Enjoy..._

It was very likely that the brother's would have remained locked together in their tight embrace for hours if it wasn't for the intrusion on the room. But the sporadic reactions of Dean's heart monitor and the noticeable activity in the room finally had the nursing staff moving to check on their handsome patient. Lily, one of Sam's favorite nurses, peeked her head in the door hesitantly, pausing with surprise when she viewed the sight in front of her.

Too late, Bobby lifted a finger to his lips in suggestion that the pretty, young nurse let the boys be. But her arrival in the room was loud enough that Dean startled. His grip loosened just enough that he didn't feel comfortable tightening it again and he finally let Sam go, although his hand still found the younger man's hand and continued to clench it tightly.

Dean blushed slightly, the ladies man in him recognizing the need to feel embarrassed that Lily had witnessed his breakdown. The skinny blond cautiously entered the room, already regretting the intrusion. She walked lightly, her long legs going on forever beneath her barely legal skirt, as she crossed the room to her patients. Where most nurses seemed to elect for the standard scrubs these days, she seemed to enjoy wearing the almost extinct nurses skirts and dresses that were so popular in the movies. That was why she was one of Sam's favorites; not that he was attracted to her, but he knew she would give Dean something to do. And her genuinely kind and nurturing mannerisms certainly didn't hurt either.

"I'm so glad you're awake," she said, smiling gently. She finally made it to Dean's bedside, talking softly to him as she noted his vitals and quickly checked the leg before pulling the covers back up to Dean's waist. "We've been worried about you. And I think this brother of yours was about to jump out of his skin with worry if you didn't wake up soon. How are you feeling?"

Dean shrugged, refusing to make eye contact with the pretty nurse. He didn't want to flirt; didn't want to put himself out there. He felt incomplete, as though no woman would ever look at him the same way, and the last thing he needed was to be pitied. So he refused to look at the woman at all, unwilling to even give her the chance. It was unfortunate, really, because he truly would have enjoyed taking the blond for a spin. It would have been nice to have something, _someone,_ to occupy his time while he recovered. But that was then, and he was a new man now.

Lily turned her attentions on Sam, hands resting sternly on her hips as she glared at him with mock authority. "How long have you been out of bed?" She demanded.

Sam looked sheepish. "Dean woke up," he replied, ducking the question and offering an explanation that, he hoped, would grant him some reprieve.

Softening a little, Lily nodded but still held firm. "I know you want to talk, Sam, but you're still recovering from some pretty severe injuries yourself. You need to get back into bed."

With Dean fast asleep, Sam had been OK listening to the orders. There hadn't been much to say to the man while he was unconscious, and just knowing he was in the same room gave Sam respite. But now that Dean was awake, and completely distraught, there was no way Sam was willing to leave his brother's side.

He shook his head stubbornly. "I feel fine."

"Sam, there are no exceptions," she prompted. "You made a deal with the doctors."

"I know. But things have changed," Sam insisted, inching closer to Dean. His eyes bored into the young nurse as he tried to get his point across. _My brother can't handle this without me. Don't make me say it out loud._

Thankfully, Lily got the point and she screwed up her face in concentration as she debated over how to handle the situation. "OK," she finally agreed, sighing loudly to express her exasperation. "You can stay up for a little while longer. I need to get some supplies to clean and change Dean's bandages and he's due for another dose of pain meds. But you have to promise me that as soon as your brother is asleep, you will get back into bed. And it's two hours of rest this time; got it?"

Sam nodded, smiling gratefully at the nurse, and seeing straight through her faux rough exterior to the gigantic heart that lay beneath the surface. "Deal."

Throughout the whole exchange between nurse and brother Dean had remained silent, leaning just enough into Sam's shoulder to be touching him, as his eyes fixed steadily on some invisible spot on the wall. He didn't react at all to the conversation going on around him, despite the fact that it was clearly about him. He barely acknowledged Bobby when, seconds after Lily disappeared out the door, the older man announced that he would leave the two of them alone while he went to get some coffee. And the fact that he hadn't even looked in the direction of the sexiest nurse on the floor, let alone tried to pick her up, had Sam worried.

"You doing alright there?" the younger brother asked gently as soon as the two were alone.

Dean shook his head in a slow, lethargic motion, but didn't say a word. His eyes removed themselves from the wall and traveled back to his legs again, focusing on the empty space where his left leg should have been. A lone tear released itself from eyes already puffy with moisture.

"You have to talk to me, Dean," Sam pleaded, turning to his brother and lifting the man's chin so that he was forced to look at him. "I want to help you, Dean, but you have to talk to me."

More moisture pooled in Dean's green orbs, making them sparkle unnaturally over the drab flatness they had become. "There's nothing to say..." he finally announced softly, whispered. "Unless you can give me my leg back."

Sam shook his head, sorrier about that fact than Dean would ever know. "I wish I could."

"But you can't. And there's nothing you can do to help me then."

_Of course there is, _Sam wanted to scream. _I can do so much to help you if you would let me, you stubborn S-O-B. I can listen. I can hold your hand._ _I can hug you, and cry with you...and someday, when you're finally ready, I can help you learn to walk again. Let me in, Dean! Dammit! Let me be there to catch you when you fall; to pick you up and set you on the right path. Let me be proud of you when you finally do take that first step. Shit, Dean, just let me be your brother!_

But Sam said none of that, because it would simply fall on deaf ears. He just hoped his presence would be enough for the time being.

Lily returned, pushing a cart full of medical equipment in front of her this time. She smiled hesitantly at the two boys, knowing that neither one had yet seen what she was about to reveal, and wondering what their reactions would be. She'd seen it all in her five short years as a nurse; she'd watched patients with detached emotions as they stared helplessly, unflinchingly, at the battle scars of their injuries. She'd worked nervously through the cleaning's of patients flailing so violently that she feared they would hurt themselves worse. She had watched tough, seemingly unshakeable men break down in tears at the sight of their injuries. In her line of work, with the injuries she cared for and saw on a daily basis, Lily had witnessed every form of breakdown and reaction imaginable. She was prepared for it all, and the silent tears that fell down Dean's face didn't faze her one bit. Her only wish was that somehow, her gentle ministrations might help the young man who seemed so determined to shut her out.

"I'll try to be gentle," she soothed, once again pulling the blanket to the bottom of the bed. "I can't promise it won't hurt, but I'll do my best to make this easy for you."

Dean didn't move; didn't blink. From the corner of one eye she saw the brother slowly inch his hand down to the bed so that it covered Dean's shaking one as he looked Lily in the eye. "Dean's tough," Sam announced firmly, squeezing his brother's hand in the process. "He'll be fine."

Lily smiled at Sam's reassurances, in spite of the fact that Dean hadn't voiced them himself. She couldn't help but wonder if the reassurance had been more for her sake or more for her trembling patient. Either way, she hoped the young man had taken his brother's loving words to heart. He needed to hear them; needed to _believe _them.

There was something about these two boys that pulled at Lily's heartstrings more than any other patients she'd ever cared for. They were different; special. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she knew without doubt that they required extra special care. And as Lily reached for the bandage wrapped around Dean's leg, she made a vow to do whatever it would take to give them that care.

Sam was terrified of what was to come next; terrified of how he might react when the bandage was removed. So he took his cue from Dean, deciding to look only after his brother did. Except that Dean didn't look, at least not from Sam's vantage point. The older hunter kept his head bowed low, staring into his lap and at the one hand that remained free from Sam's grasp. His eyes were barely open to slits, and whether it was to keep the sight of his ruined leg from getting in or to keep a fresh batch of tears from getting out Sam wasn't sure. Either way, Dean wasn't about to help Sam with his reaction to the leg. He would just have to look for himself.

Sam used what little energy he had left to force himself not to react visibly to the sight of the remaining stump that was once Dean's lower leg, the reality of the situation finally slamming full force into his mind. The last card in their teetering house of cards had finally been pulled out from under him and he had no more glue to put it back together. What surprised Sam was the fact that, as far as battle wounds went, this one seemed pretty innocuous. The incision was surgically perfect, although Sam found himself critiquing the series of stitches holding the red, puckered skin together. If it wasn't for the blatantly missing sixteen inches worth of flesh and bone Sam would probably have told Dean to suck it up and move on with life. But the leg was missing, and Dean couldn't just "suck it up" because this was worse than any injury either one of them had ever experienced. There was no coming back from this; no asking for just a little more time to let it heal. The leg would never grow back, and no matter how much rehab Dean went through, no matter how good he became at hiding a limp with a prosthetic leg, Dean would never _ever_ be the same as he once was. He would always be missing a part of himself. And if Dean was missing something, then Sam was missing something too.

Sam already felt as though he were walking a thin tightrope, teetering precariously as he tried desperately to find a new balance in life, and he found that if he thought much longer on it, he didn't doubt that he'd find himself in a fit of hysterics. And so, instead of laughing in front of Dean or, for that matter, crying, Sam did the only other thing he could think to do as his wold blurred around him. He got up and ran.

"Sammy!" Dean called as Sam teetered on unsteady legs out the door, bouncing painfully against the door frame as he went. He watched fearfully as he saw his confused brother walk out on him, seeing the boy's hand held shakily to his mouth as though he might throw up. "Sammy, please come back." The unspoken message: _Sammy, please, I need you. Don't leave me._

xxxxxxxxxx

_Coward!_ Sam was barely through the doorway when his conscience began mocking him, taunting him with vicious thoughts and shouting out slanderous names. _You did this!_ It screamed over and over. _You did this to him. You and your selfish idea to go hunting in the middle of the Canadian wild. You...who couldn't stop your search long enough to listen when Dean said he had a bad feeling. You...who didn't get him out of the woods soon enough and had the stupid Stupid _STUPID_ idea to tie that damn belt around his leg and cut off all the blood flow. This is your fault, Sam. This is all on you!_

He ran blindly down the hallway, ignoring the fiery pain shooting from every synapse of his chest and shoulder as he bounced off medical staff and visitors, not seeing the multitude of reactions they produced, ranging from concern to annoyance. Unsolicited tears filled his eyes, making him unable to see where he was headed even if his head had been clear enough to make those decisions. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, or maybe it was because suddenly he couldn't seem to drag in a full breath anymore and spots were beginning to dance a polka in front of his eyes, but he continued to run.

Finally, the elevator came into view and he searched blindly for the down button, pressing rapidly and continuously until finally he heard the familiar ding alerting him to an approaching car. Sam staggered into the car before the doors had fully opened, his one good arm supporting his quickly deteriorating body against the cool metal of the wall. And as he passed over the threshold, he felt himself grabbed firmly, someone generously supporting his fatigued body as it finally slumped to the floor in a heap. He heard a voice call his name, but the blood rushing to his head didn't allow him to clearly establish who it was, or what it was saying.

Several minutes passed before the ocean between Sam's ears began to quiet and the stars rushing rapidly in front of his eyes slowed to a tolerable speed and he finally recognized the voice eliciting soothing words from her pitched voice.

"Sam, honey, I need you to look at me," Missouri urged gently, brushing the back of her hand against the boy's warm forehead.

Blinking against the bright light, Sam finally focused on Missouri's face and he groaned. From the lurching feeling in his gut, Sam figured they were still riding the elevator and he didn't even glance around to find out how many nosy stares were being placed in his direction.

"There now, are you with me?" Missouri soothed, smiling now that Sam was focused on her. "You think you can sit up?"

He nodded uncertainly but allowed the motherly woman to gently help him sit, leaning heavily against the wall of the elevator when he was upright. From this perspective he could see there was only one other person in the car, a young woman in her mid-thirties who was taking great pains to _appear_ as though she hadn't noticed the boy laying on the floor when, in fact, she was gawking openly. If Sam had had more energy he would have gawked right back, guilting the woman into turning away, but he just didn't have it in him at the moment.

"Boy, you pulled your stitches," Missouri admonished now that she had a better look at him. He looked down at his chest where Missouri's eyes lay and saw the pool of bright red blood staining the front of his hospital gown, making the material stick to his chest. It wasn't too bad, but he would need to have it re-sewn before it got worse.

"I ran into some stuff...and some people on my way here," he explained in a whisper. "How long was I..."

Missouri looked at Sam in sympathy, patting his hand. "Not long," she said. "Do you want to go somewhere and talk? Maybe to the cafeteria?"

After taking a second to think Sam nodded his head. "Yeah. That would be nice." He leaned forward, awkwardly pushing off from the floor with one arm and stumbling before Missouri leaned down and helped him to stand. She supported him as he reached out to press the button for their floor, and then guided him gently by the arm to a small table away from the majority of the cafeteria's occupants.

"Can I get you something to drink, honey? Some coffee or water?"

Again, Sam nodded, replying with a single word. "Coffee."

She disappeared, and returned minutes later carrying two steaming cups of coffee, a multitude of cream and sugar added to both. Handing one of the cups to Sam, Missouri navigated her ample frame into the opposite chair. She reached out with one hand and placed it on top of Sam's, its warmth and generosity beginning to reach his overwrought mind.

"Talk to me, Sam," Missouri pleaded, eyes softening, reassuring Sam that he could trust her. _I left him, Missouri. I just ran out on him. My own brother. How could I do that? _He hesitated, but finally did open his mouth, and spilled all.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sam had never really trusted anyone with his feelings; at least no one that wasn't Dean. His own father had remained in the dark on his most treasured and hidden secrets, only gaining access to the bare minimum of the thoughts that plagued the youngest Winchester. But Dean could no longer shoulder the burden that had fallen on Sam, and as much as he hated to admit it, Sam lacked the strength to bear his own burden. Missouri had been there. She'd been willing. And Sam was so weak. And by the time he was done pouring out his inner most thoughts and torments to the closest thing to a mother Sam had ever known he was reduced to a weeping pile of bone and tears, body convulsing as he wept into Missouri's shoulder.

He'd told her everything; how he'd forced Dean to pursue the hunt despite his protests, the fact that it was his idea to tie the belt around Dean's leg, he told her about promising Dean they were safe and then failing to protect them from whatever beast had attacked them, and then added that that made it _his_ fault that Dean had felt the need to drag himself through the dirt to get to Sam. But mostly, he told Missouri how much he doubted himself now that it was up to him to provide complete moral support. "I choked, Missouri," he whimpered, face buried in his hand. "She unwrapped his leg and there it was, just staring me right in the face, and I just...choked. I couldn't handle it, Missouri. I did this to him, and I can't face him, and I just don't know what to do."

"First of all, you need to stop blaming yourself for what happened to your brother," the psychic voiced wisely. "And then, you need to accept the fact that you are only human. The way you reacted back there was a _human_ reaction to a very real problem. I can't possibly imagine that you are the first person to turn and run from the sight of seeing someone you love in pain."

"But it's Dean," Sam protested.

Missouri smiled knowingly, but sadly. "And that's exactly why it's okay that you reacted the way you did...because it _is_ Dean. He loves you. And that kind of unconditional love doesn't come around very often. He will forgive you for that; when he forgives himself for getting hurt in the first place."

Sam's head shot up, startled by Missouri's words, and he looked at her in horrified curiosity. "What do you mean by that?" Sam demanded, wondering whether it was her psychic intuition feeding her this line, or if she'd come up with that all on her own.

She shrugged. "You know your brother better than I do. You ran off, and somehow he's going to see that as being his fault. He's going to view your fear as something he created, he'll see your determination to get him better as something he's forcing you to have. All your lives Dean's taken every little annoying personality trait that made you _you_ and found some way to blame himself."

Sam's head was cocked in curiosity, needing the woman to continue with her point, although he seemed to be starting to understand what she was saying. Recollections and realizations were popping in his head, and he began to link some of her points as she continued.

"When you left for college he blamed himself for pushing you too hard in your studies. When you and your father fought he believed it was because he'd encouraged you too much to have a mind of your own. But the thing is, he never saw that those were actually _good_ things that he'd done for you. He never realized that the blame he was placing on himself should have actually been pride for creating the man you had become."

Lower lip clenched tightly between his teeth, Sam stared at Missouri, mentally calculating what she had just said, unsure whether or not it was worth it to add another rebuttal. He had to admit, she was good. The woman had just put to words a feeling that he'd been trying to comprehend for years. She made it seem simple; straight-forward. But it just wasn't that simple to accept, and he tried one more time to place the blame on himself. "Dean would never have reacted the same way if it had been me in his place," he argued.

Missouri shook her head, once again disallowing Sam's floundering in his own self pity. "You have no idea how Dean would have reacted if the situation were reversed. But I do know one thing, Sam. Your brother has made it his life goal to protect you, and no matter how much you are hurting right now, seeing your brother in so much pain, if this had happened to you I guarantee Dean would be dying inside. He would think he'd failed you; failed to protect you. He may or may not have physically run from you, but I'm certain he would have figured out some form of escape. It's terrible, what happened to Dean, but I think things would be one hundred times worse if it was you in that hospital bed."

There was no denying the accuracy of Missouri's statements, and Sam was all out of protests and arguments. "I just don't know what to do for him," he cried, head falling back into his open hand as he deflated. "I can't see him like this. I don't know how to help him."

A screeching sound met the air as Missouri pulled her chair around to be next to Sam, wrapping a firm arm around the boy's shaking body. "You help him by being there for him and letting him deal with this his own way. Sam, there's no schedule for these kinds of things. He's going to have some good days, but he's going to have a lot of bad days, and you need to be by his side every step of the way. No more running. If you need to get away you do it without causing a scene; don't make him think you're leaving because of him. Don't make him think you can't handle this. If he thinks you don't want to be there he's going to push you away, because he'll see that as protecting you. Just be conscious of his feelings, Sam. He needs that most of all."

Sam nodded. His hand came away from his head and suddenly he became very interested in the spoon on the table as he flipped it end over end, contemplating everything Missouri had just said. "You're right," he agreed. "I just don't know if I can do this on my own."

Missouri rubbed gentle circles on Sam's back. "You don't have to, Sam. You've got me. You've got Bobby. This is going to be alright, Sam. You have to trust me on that."

And Sam found that he did trust her. He believed her. If only he knew how much faith and trust he would need to have before things got better.


	8. Chapter 8

**_I know some of you are mad at me for having Sam run out on the last chapter, but it just seemed to fit, so...sorry 'bout that. There's a lot more angst to deal with before we get any happy moments. For those of you who love angst, your payoff is now. For those of you who don't...well, you'll just have to wait a while. But I promise it's coming. You all rock. Thanks so much for those wonderful reviews and please, keep them coming. Feed the piggy bank! _**

**Disclaimer: Don't own the boys, but if I did...oooh, what fun we would have! **

Dean didn't talk for close to a week after Sam ran out on him that day. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, didn't react to people talking to him or asking him questions, didn't respond to touch. They called it a waking coma. He was in there, awake, but he simply wasn't responding to any external stimulus. His mind had completely shut down. It was as though he had completely distanced himself from the surrounding world, a means of self preservation. When all else may have been out of control in his life, this, Dean could control. And he controlled it by totally letting go.

Dean had been asleep when Sam finally returned several hours later, freshly stitched and leaning heavily on Missouri. Bobby was sitting nervously at Dean's bedside, but jumped to his feet when the two entered the room, taking Sam's sizeable weight from a struggling Missouri and leading the youngest Winchester back to his bed. He'd noticed the bloodshot eyes and puffy lids, but said nothing to the boy as he settled himself back against the pillows.

"Is he okay?" Sam had asked, his shaking voice filled with apprehension as he steeled a glance at his sleeping brother.

"As okay as can be expected," Bobby had replied. He wasn't sure what exactly was going on, but he knew something had gone down between the two. Dean's nurse had given him only the minimum information when he'd returned just minutes after Sam had left, and all he knew was that Sam had gotten upset and needed some air. She had said it softly, under her breath, as she inserted something into Dean's IV and patted the boy on the shoulder.

Tears had glistened in Dean's eyes, but he quickly wiped them away as Bobby sat down beside him. Sniffling twice, Dean crossed his arms in protective stance across his chest and closed his eyes. Other than turning his chin slightly in Bobby's direction, as though he needed that semblance of nearness, Dean never acknowledged the man's presence. He'd fallen asleep soon afterward.

A different nurse entered the room a few minutes after Sam was settled into bed and offered a handful of pills to the sullen and surprisingly cooperative young man, waiting until he'd swallowed them and downed the cupful of water before retreating from the room. And shortly, Sam was fast asleep too.

Convinced that both boys would be asleep for a while, Bobby and Missouri had exited to the hall and spent a good hour discussing John Winchester's boys. Missouri told Bobby about her conversation with Sam, leaving out the parts she thought he would want kept secret, and in return Bobby told Missouri about the conversation he'd been privy to between the boys when Dean first woke up. They discussed the accident, and how it was affecting their young charges, these boys' whom they had held close to their hearts from the time John Winchester had first brought them around, these boys' whom they had both vowed to protect as they would their own. There was nothing either wouldn't do for Dean and Sam, and the question wasn't _if_ they would get them through this painful time, but _how_. By the time they had finished, they at least had a plan of action for when Dean was released from the hospital, but still had no idea how to put the broken pieces of the boys back together again.

And from there it only got worse. Dean hadn't slept well that entire first night after waking up. He tossed and turned, mumbling and calling out and panting heavily until Sam couldn't take it anymore and climbed into bed with his brother. A comforting hand on Dean's chest finally had the hunter calm enough to get at least an hour or two of restful sleep. But when he'd woken up, he acted as though Sam wasn't there with him; as though his touch meant nothing to him and didn't actually exist. His eyes had focused unsteadily on the dresser across the room and he lay still in the bed.

Hurt, Sam disentangled himself from his brother and resettled himself in the chair beside the bed. He clutched tightly to Dean's hand, and couldn't help but notice that Dean didn't return the squeeze, if anything, he seemed to pull away from Sam's touch. But Sam couldn't blame Dean for hating him, hell he hated himself for running out on his brother before, and he was now more determined than ever to reconnect; to repair their bond.

Dean wouldn't feed himself, and he would barely allow himself to be spoon fed until one day Dr. Hurley threatened to have a tube shoved down Dean's nose into his stomach to supplement the vitamins and nourishment he was lacking. To Sam's surprise and complete dismay the threat didn't even faze his normally stubborn brother, and a half day later a surgical team was brought in to place the tube. Thick brown goop that claimed to be food began to flow steadily through that plastic tubing five times a day, but Dean barely blinked at its presence.

A psych consult was called in on the third day. The man was plump and balding, and wore a red argyle sweater vest, mustard yellow tie and thick rimmed glasses, and he sat with Dean for all of ten minutes before giving his diagnosis; depression, in full swing. Sam protested the prescription for antidepressants the pretentious doctor wrote out, accusing him of rushing Dean's healing process. "You would be depressed too if you'd just lost a leg!" Sam had yelled, and finally managed to convince the man to give his brother a little longer before actually trying the medication. Sam knew the history of antidepressants, knew they would only succeed in making his brother an emotionless zombie. The irony was not lost on Sam that Dean was _already_ an emotionless zombie, but at least this present state was his own doing. They hadn't been raised to rely on medications to repair what the body would fix in time and he wasn't about to start now. He normally fought Dean tooth and nail to take a few Tylenol when he was in pain. Sam knew Dean would thank him eventually...he hoped Dean would be _able_ to thank him eventually.

Sam was released four days after Dean woke up, except all that meant was that he traded the despised hospital garb for his familiar t-shirts and jeans, and downgraded from the relatively comfortable hospital bed to a worn easy chair barely large enough to allow Sam to cram his lanky frame into it. He never moved from Dean's bedside except for occasional trips to the bathroom and the rare venture to the hospital cafeteria, despite Bobby and Missouri's protests that he find a hotel and get some sleep. But the guilt that ate away at him from his moment of weakness when he ran kept Sam glued to his spot, unwilling to put Dean through the same torment he'd put him through once before.

Watching the nursing staff clean what they called Dean's 'stump' became easier with time. Part of Sam knew he would never be fully comfortable with the sight, aware that he would always blame himself for what had happened. But he learned to overcome his discomfort, going so far as to ask the nurses to teach him how to care for the limb. By the fifth day, Sam had pretty much taken over Dean's care, fully preparing himself for the day that Dean was released.

Late afternoon on day six, Sam emerged from Dean's room just in time to overhear Dr. Hurley and the dreaded Psychiatrist discussing Dean's case. Reacting quickly, Sam flattened himself against the doorframe, just out of sight of the two doctors but within hearing range. They spoke about re-visiting the idea of antidepressants and discussed how they might convince 'the brother' to see things their way. And then they said something that made Sam's blood boil.

"I think we need to consider admitting Mr. Winchester into the psych unit," Dr. Pretentious suggested casually. "I've seen patients go into depression, but this is far worse than most I've seen. He hasn't spoken one single word in six days. It's like he's just a shell; he's not even in there."

Dr. Hurley rubbed his chin between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, contemplating the thought. "His brother won't like that," he warned, although never saying 'no' to the suggestion.

"With all due respect," the psychiatrist began in a voice that oozed a complete and utter _lack_ of respect, "the brother doesn't have an MD after his name. He doesn't know what's best for our patient."

Sam didn't wait to hear more than that, crossing the short distance to Dean's bed and speaking frantically to his desensitized brother. "Dean, man, this isn't a joke anymore. They're talking about locking you up in a nut house if you don't snap out of it. And I don't think there's anything I can do if it comes to that. They're trying to shut me out, Dean. They're discussing what they can do to go over my head. But you and I both know that locking you up in the psych unit isn't going to make you better. You've gotta do it on your own. And you have to do it soon."

Dean blinked, but continued to stare at the same spot on the dresser he'd been staring at for days, the automatic movement of his eyelids doing nothing to ease Sam's mind.

"Is this punishment?" Sam demanded desperately. "Are you punishing me for running out on you? Because I'm _sorry_, Dean. I'm so sorry for that you will never even know. If I could take back that time, if I could go back and do it over again I would do it differently, I _swear_, Dean. But I can't go back. You have to forgive me. Please!"

Another blink, but no other response.

"Dean, please," Sam begged, getting up and pacing the floor, fisting his hair in his nervous hands. "I don't know what to do anymore, man. I know it's a lot to ask, but I need you. I need you to snap out of it and tell me what to do. I can't do this without you, Dean...is that selfish of me? Because you know what...I don't care anymore. If my being selfish is what it's going to take to get you to come back to me then dammit Dean, I'm going to be so fucking selfish you won't know what hit you."

He paused, realizing that he was rambling like a lunatic, and deciding he didn't care. "I need you here with me, Dean. This is your thing...this whole big brother, savior, fixing things gig and I just don't have what it takes to do the same job you do. I want to help you, Dean. I really do. But you have to tell me what to do so I _can_ help."

Back at Dean's side, Sam jumped on the bed, straddling his brother as he grabbed him roughly by the arms and shook him desperately. "Pleeeease, Dean," Sam begged, moisture clouding his eyes once again, now becoming an annoying habit that Sam was all too willing to break. "This just isn't funny anymore. I need you back."

Still, the only reaction Sam received was a lethargic robotic blink of Dean's eyelids. Sam sighed, completely and utterly hopeless and deflated, and collapsed beside Dean on the bed. His head fell heavily on the older man's stomach, no longer worried if the move hurt his brother. Sam didn't care anymore, because, maybe Dean needed a little added pain to snap his ass out of the protective trance he had placed himself under. At this point Sam was ready to try anything.

xxxxxxxxxx

For days it had felt as though he'd been drowning under water, sinking deeper and deeper into the murky depths of the black sea. At first, Dean had relished the escape, seeking the protection the darkness provided him. He'd stayed there, safely hidden and oblivious to the activity going on around him. Until the day that Sam's desperate voice finally broke through the fog and dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to the surface. He didn't have a choice, not really anyway, because Sam was his responsibility and Sam was hurting. Dean never could deny his little brother anything.

Sam's head smacking into his gut like a bowling ball was the final pull and he sputtered out a whoosh of air before managing to breath normally once again. But somehow, Sam seemed to miss the reaction from his brother and his head remained down on Dean's stomach, fingers just barely touching Dean's hand. Exhaustion overtook him immediately. Apparently getting lost in a void of nothingness took more out of a person than one would expect because no sooner than Dean had come back to lucidity did he end up succumbing to slumber.

Waking up an hour later Dean found Sam in the same position he'd left him in, the only change being that his hospital gown was now soaked from his brother's silent tears. Dean inched his hand forward, easily finding purchase on his brother's fingers and tapping them gently.

"Sammy..."

Sam's head shot up fast, wincing as it pulled at the still healing wound in his shoulder. He looked over to Dean with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here." His voice was hoarse and scratchy from lack of use and he coughed once after forcing the words out.

"It's Sam." The reply was automatic. Sam hardly knew he was saying it before the words were out of his mouth and when he realized how trivial he sounded he cracked a smile.

"That all you got to say to me?" Dean asked, shooting his own smile at his brother.

The corners of Sam's mouth dropped and he stared hard at Dean, suddenly trying to figure the man out. Sam had just spent almost an entire week doing nothing _but_ talk to Dean while Dean had remained practically comatose. And now Dean dared to question what Sam had to say?

"Sam?" Dean's voice hedged on anxiety.

And Sam broke down. "Shit, Dean, it's not like I haven't tried to talk to you all week. Where were you man? Where the fuck _were_ you?"

Dean shrugged helplessly. "I don't know, man. I guess I just needed time to pull myself together."

Sam cleared his throat and spoke hesitantly. "About the other day...what I– what I did..."

"You did what you had to do," Dean interrupted, holding up a hand to stop Sam before he got in too deep.

But Sam wasn't finished. "I shouldn't have done it, though. I never should have run out on you. It's just that–"

"Just stop it, Sam," Dean warned, unwilling to hear what would undoubtedly become a Sammy pity party. It wasn't that Sam didn't mean well; Dean knew that much. But Sam had an uncanny ability to turn everything on himself. Even what he aimed to be a heartfelt apology always managed to become about Sam and Dean wasn't ready to deal with it.

"I'm trying to say I'm sorry here," Sam protested.

Dean gripped the edges of the blanket, already wishing he hadn't reemerged from his safety net. "Then just say it and be done with it, Sam."

Sam flinched at the anger in Dean's tone and he knew that things weren't right with them yet. He knew they wouldn't be for a long time. "I'm sorry," he said meekly, suddenly becoming very interested in the tiles on the floor.

"Apology accepted." The reply was flat, emotionless, as though Dean didn't really want to accept it but had to for Sam's sake.

They sat in silence again, although this one was more strained than the past weeks silence. Where the other silence had been truly that: quiet, this one spoke volumes. This one screamed of despair and distrust, uncertainty, fear. It screamed of change.

Minutes passed slowly as each brother found something other than each other to focus on, the stationary objects common to all hospital rooms becoming extremely interesting as they avoided picking up the conversation.

"So what now?" Dean finally asked, unable to maintain the silence any longer. He never had been one for quiet, always finding a way to fill uncomfortable silences with witty sarcasm and snarkiness. Maybe that was why Sam was so upset about him taking a week off from reality; maybe Sam just hadn't known how to fill the silence. Not that Dean really knew how to right now either. What surprised him was that he couldn't even find it in himself to be sarcastic right now. It had always been his stronghold; the glue that held his constantly breaking heart together during times of loss and pain. He'd never been able to share his feelings the way Sam did and making stupid remarks was always the closet thing he had to spilling his guts. It was his way of saying 'I'm hurting and I don't know how to handle it.' But even that didn't seem to want to make an appearance and that scared the shit out of Dean.

"Huh?" Sam looked up from the specks in the floor tiles that he'd been counting and eyed his brother, Dean's words not having made it from Sam's ears to his brain for comprehension.

"I asked what we do now?"

A pause, and then Sam smiled. "Well, I guess first of all we tell that pretentious jack-ass of a psychiatrist that he can shove his anti-depressants and psych units where the sun don't shine."

Dean chuckled nervously at that, rolling his eyes as he pointed to the feeding tube protruding from his nose. "He do this, too?"

"No. That was Dr. Hurley's doing. You wouldn't eat...he had to do something."

Nodding slowly in understanding, Dean eyed Sam suspiciously. "There's another one down there, huh?" He nudged his chin outward in gesture to the hidden catheter's location just in case Sam didn't know what he was talking about.

He huffed in reply, drawing half a smile in return. "You were out of it, man. What did you want us to do...let you wet the bed?"

_Good point. _"So what do I need to do to go about getting this crap removed. A man's gotta have his pride, ya know?"

The other side of Sam's lip pulled up, completing the smile, although it didn't quite reach his eyes. He still didn't know what to expect. Dean was being far too accepting all of a sudden and Sam just couldn't quite wrap his mind around the idea that his brother had suddenly woken up completely fine emotionally. He was willing to play along, but deep down he knew there was still a lot of bad yet to come.

"I can go get your doctor," Sam offered.

There was no hiding the shock that seemed to encompass both Dr. Hurley and the shrink when they arrived to find their previously unresponsive patient not only awake but talking animatedly. The shrink had literally slunk from the room after Sam smugly announced that he 'guessed there would be no going behind my back to put my brother in the loony bin now, huh?' Dr. Hurley, however, maintained his professionalism, calling in a nurse Sam didn't know well to assist with the removal of the tubes.

Sam was sent from the room and he took his opportunity to call Bobby and Missouri. They had planned to be gone for a couple of hours, but it was going on five now and he was starting to get worried. Neither one answered their cell phones and Sam was forced to leave a message telling them that Dean woke up and to get to the hospital as soon as they could. He headed back to Dean.

The weird silence hovered over them again for several minutes after the doctor had left and Sam didn't know if it was because Dean's privacy had just been violated or if it was something else bothering him. But it was Dean, again, who interrupted the silence.

It was practically whispered when Dean finally did speak, and the strain in his voice was enough to break Sam's heart. The bad was returning. "So it's really gone."

The room closed in around Sam, and the claustrophobia made him feel nauseous. He looked over at Dean's sullen form and immediately looked away, down at his hands as they nervously wrung around each other. "Yeah. I guess it is."

"Just like that. One wrong step and it's all over for me."

"I think that trap was there on purpose. It was tainted," Sam offered, as though that made the cold hard fact of the matter any easier.

Dean laughed bitterly. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"N– no," Sam stammered, mentally berating himself. _Stupid. Kick a man while he's down why don't you? Idiot._ "I'm sorry Dean. I just– I mean it's–"

"Save it." Again, Dean's hand shot up to stop Sam. "There's nothing you can say. Just...don't. Please."

In one fell swoop Sam's heart completely broke. "What can I do?"

_You can stop talking and just be here for me...with me. _"I told you, Sam, there's nothing you can do for me. Not now. Please, just...just leave me alone." _But dear God, Sammy, please don't leave me. _

As if Sam could hear Dean's thoughts he remained in his seat. "You know I can't do that, Dean. I was selfish enough to leave you once. I'm not doing it again."

"Suit yourself, Sammy." _Thank you God. I don't want to be alone right now. _Reaching to the table beside the bed, Dean grabbed the remote control and flipped the TV on, needing the sound of fed in laughter to drown out the constant reminder of his missing leg running through his head.

Sam opened his mouth to protest once again the use of his despised nickname but, mouth wide open, thought better of it and closed the gaping hole with a desperate sigh. He settled in to watch the syndicated comedy Dean had selected. Arms crossed against his chest, Sam leaned his body toward the bed, resting one shoulder against Dean's pillow, the elbow on the mattress. Dean may not have wanted to admit it, but Sam sensed his brother's need to feel close to someone and Sam would happily provide that if it meant making the man feel even slightly more secure.

Feeling the pressure as Sam's body made the mattress sink, Dean looked over from the screen and rolled his eyes. "Could you be any more of a chick, Sammy?" _and please keep it up. Just stay. Stay with me. Don't move. _


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: Alright, so I think it's time I put a itty bitty disclaimer/explanation in here. Surprisingly, no one has flamed this story, and everyone who has told me this is difficult to read has still managed to stick with me - so thanks so much for that. I've said this before, but I'll say it again - I'm well aware that this is a difficult topic to cover and I truly want to do it justice. I don't like writing what's already been written, but it's getting harder and harder to find unchartered topics that are worth writing. For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated with the human body and the potentially traumatic injuries we can face. But I've been equally fascinated with the human mind's ability to overcome such injury, living through it. I despise stories that portray an injured party as incapable of normal life; sure, initially it is difficult to care for oneself and therefor I will write a weak and needy Dean first. But trust me when I say that Dean will be OK eventually, or at least as OK as Dean Winchester will ever be. Once again, thanks so much for sticking through this story. Your reviews and support are well beyond appreciated and I can't even begin to say thank you for giving this a chance. Keep those reviews coming. Love you all...**_

Darkness had fallen by the time Bobby and Missouri made it back to the hospital, the pitch black of the moonless night invading the room, making it seem even colder and drearier than it should have been. Dean was moody; not exactly depressed and unresponsive as he had been, but certainly less animated than normal Dean While picking at the inedible crap the hospital tried to pass off as food he had cast a final realization to the fact that his leg was no more. But it would take a while before he managed to accept it without the noticeable shudders that overtook his body both outwardly and inwardly.

When the television lost it's draw far too soon, Sam had suggested a game of poker to take Dean's mind off his leg, and he now sat across the rolling cart from the morose hunter fisting a royal flush and chewing his lip nervously as he contemplated how to get rid of the winning hand. Luck had not been with his older brother that night and Sam had won the last three hands in a row as he watched Dean's face steadily drop. On any other day Sam would have been reveling at his lucky streak, throwing the cards in his brother's face with an obnoxious and mighty flourish. But this wasn't any other day, and Dean wasn't in a mood to take his little brother's light hearted jabs. He could barely manage simply losing the game – and they were only playing for q-tips and cotton balls.

With a sigh of relief, Sam threw his cards face down on the table as the cavalry arrived, quickly shuffling the five unwanted cards back into the deck before Dean had a chance to look at them.

"Dean, honey, I'm so glad you decided to come back to us," Missouri sang out happily, crossing the room to the young man and planting a kiss on his forehead before he had the opportunity to protest. "We missed you so much. Your brother, here, was just about to go out of his mind with worry."

Sam felt his cheeks reddening and he quickly turned away before Dean could look up and see his embarrassment. His eyes traveled to the doorway where Bobby remained standing, arms crossed nervously. He appeared stressed, like he'd been walking around with the weight of the world on his shoulders for the entire day. Their eyes met and Bobby immediately took the opportunity to signal the youngest with a sharp nod of his head that they needed to talk.

"Dean, I'm uh... going to make a quick run to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Will you be alright here with Missouri?"

Glancing uncertainly at Sam, then to Bobby and then back to Sam again, Dean nodded. His little brother was not a good liar; never had been, never would be. And it didn't take much for Dean to know that the boy wasn't being completely honest with him. Bobby's look of severe discomfort didn't help matters. But he let it slide; Sam would tell him when he was ready. "Just bring a cup back for me?" he begged instead.

Bobby was out the door before Sam had even vacated his seat and the young hunter had to sprint to catch up with the man. They were halfway to the elevators before Bobby spoke, needing to be absolutely certain Dean was no where within hearing distance.

"I don't know for sure what you boys were hunting out there, but it's not dead," Bobby stated bluntly. He continued to press forward, towards the elevators, not turning to see Sam's reaction to his statement.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks at Bobby's words and then ran once again to catch up with the man. "How do you know?" he asked breathlessly.

"Missouri and I heard it on the news this morning. Two more campers were found mauled to death in their campsite. Weird though, 'cause they said this one seemed almost like they'd been trampled. And one had been speared by something pointed, but blunt, like an antler or something. From the looks of it they'd been dead for a couple of days at most."

"You think it's the same thing?" Sam asked, although he already knew the answer.

"I don't think it's in the same shape that you boys faced, but I think it's the same spirit or whatever. Just took on the form of a different animal. A moose maybe?"

"Is that why you two were so late coming today?"

Bobby nodded affirmatively. "We went back to the rangers station hoping to maybe get them to close down that area of the park."

"And?"

"And it's a no go. They said there's just no way to close off so large an area. They can warn the campers, but I guess anyone could wander over there without even knowing how close they are."

"So what," Sam spat out angrily, arms flailing in disgust. "They're just going to let people die? Don't they even care?"

"I asked them that myself," Bobby replied, noticeably lowering his voice in hopes that Sam would do the same. "Ranger said it was more trouble than it was worth. Said he'd make sure to tell anyone venturing out that way to steer clear, but there's not a whole lot they can do. It's not like they can tape off a 20 mile radius with police line."

Sam shrugged in defeat. "We need to get out there then and stop this thing before it attacks anyone else. Let me just tell Dean that I'm– Shit. Dean." Sam's eyes went wide and he grabbed Bobby by the arms. "Bobby, he can't know about this," Sam ordered anxiously.

The older man nodded in agreement. He opened his mouth the speak, to reassure Sam, but was interrupted as the young man rambled on frantically.

"If he finds out it's still out there he's gonna want to go after it. And he can't...obviously. I mean someday...but not now...and I just don't want–" Sam paused, gathering his thoughts in one deep breath and tried again. "He knows how much this is going to change his life, but it's too soon to rub it in. Dean can't know he's being excluded, so we're just going to have to figure out some way to explain my absence. It can't be that hard, can it?"

Bobby held in his laughter at Sam's frenzied words, knowing it would just hurt the boy's feelings. After patiently waiting for his young friend to finally settle down and shut up enough to listen, Bobby finally spoke. "I think you need to slow down, Sam. We can't just go out there half-cocked, guns at the ready, without knowing what it is that we're dealing with here."

The words stung, and Sam had to take a step back from the man just to regain his bearings. Bobby may not have realized what he said, but he'd essentially replayed exactly what had happened before; when Dean got hurt. Sam had been tearing himself up for days thinking about how unprepared for the hunt they had been, and Bobby and Missouri had been nothing if not supportive of his decision, repeating over and over that it _wasn't his fault._ However, the reassurances may have said one thing, but Bobby's words just now said something entirely different. _You were careless, Sam. Reckless._ The words mocked him mercilessly and he just didn't know what to do with them.

The older hunter didn't seem to recognize the power his statement had on Sam as he continued through the cafeteria, heading straight for the coffee stand. "You said you found something out there; some sort of pouch. Do you still have it?"

"Huh? What?" Sam sputtered, not realizing the man was still talking to him.

"A leather pouch, Sam," Bobby repeated, trying to suppress his impatience. "Do you know where it is?

They each filled a large Styrofoam cup with steaming hot coffee, and a third for Dean, and Bobby waited as Sam added cream and sugar to his own.

"I think I put it back in my pack," Sam replied, following Bobby to a small table far away from the rest of the crowd. "I'm not sure though. I was looking at it just before the bear came, and it may have just ended up on the tent floor. It wasn't really top on my list of priorities at the time."

"We need to find it," Bobby announced, not seeming to care about the sarcastic tone in Sam's voice. "Your pack is in the room, so let's start there. And the tent is bunched up in the back of my truck. If we don't find it in the pack, I'll check the tent."

Sam nodded. "And then what?"

"Then we analyze what's inside; see if we can figure out who, or what, might have put it there. Maybe Missouri can tell us something."

"But we agreed that Dean learns nothing of this, right?" Sam's hands fiddled nervously with the lid of the cup, opening and closing the seal repeatedly without ever taking a drink of the steaming hot liquid.

"You have my word on that," Bobby assured him. "And Missouri's too. That's why we didn't just barge right in with the announcement back in your brother's room. He won't find out until you're ready to tell him."

"Thank you." Sam stood, anxiously hopping from foot to foot. "We better go back. Dean's gonna know something's up if we don't return soon."

They walked back to the elevator in silence, the thud of their footsteps and the soft slurping as they sipped their coffee the only thing breaking the monotony. Sam pressed the button for the eighth floor; and then pressed it again when the doors didn't close immediately. He looked down at the floor and stared at his feet; his_ two_ feet and suddenly felt guilty agin. It shouldn't be Dean lying in the bed missing his leg and foot; it should be Sam. Dean hadn't wanted to go on the hunt in the first place. He'd complained incessantly at the idea of hiking into unchartered territory and camping on the cold, hard ground. He'd protested the fact that they didn't have enough information to put together a solid case; they didn't know how to kill the thing; hell, they didn't even know what the fuck the thing was they were hunting. Sam _still_ didn't know what they were hunting. And yet he'd risked both their lives because he wanted some adventure. And Dean had paid the price. Not Sam, who deserved it, but _Dean._

"I swear to you, he _will_ survive this," Bobby voiced quietly, laying an apprehensive hand on Sam's uninjured shoulder.

Sam's head shot up. How did Bobby know what he was thinking? How could he?

"It may not look like it now, but one of these days your brother will realize that the only thing holding him back is himself." The wizened hunter continued. "This is still an extremely fresh wound. Just give him time. Things will bet better in time."

Feeling Bobby's hand on his shoulder, he leaned in, desperate for contact. He nodded his head, still unsure if he believed his father's friend, but it was the only thing he had to grab hold of. Bobby's confidence, Missouri's assuredness; they were the only lifeline's he had and Sam was going to hold on as tightly as he possibly could. Because letting go meant drowning.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sam found himself relieved to discover Dean asleep again when he and Bobby arrived back in the room. A sleeping Dean meant fewer questions, a postponed interrogation. And it meant Sam could go directly to the pack that lay on the dresser in search of the small pouch. Hastened searching brought no success and Sam finally turned to Bobby, admitting the object wasn't there; hopefully it was mixed up somewhere with the mess of tent in Bobby's truck. The older hunter disappeared and returned half an hour later with the freshly retrieved leather pouch and Sam's requested Laptop computer. Together, Missouri, Bobby and Sam gathered around the pouch, examining its contents and wracking their brains for possible solutions.

Missouri sifted through the dirts and twigs with her fingers, eyes closed and humming softly to herself as she opened her mind to its energies. "It's very old," she announced softly, continuing to finger the contents. "And very powerful. This was created by a shaman, or a chieftan, someone with great powers."

She picked up the tiny bone that was collected within the contents and held it tightly between her fingers. "It's human," she supplied. "It doesn't belong to the one who made this, but he was related to that man. The one who owns the bone is the spirit you're dealing with."

Sam eyed Missouri with uncertainty. He'd never had a reason to doubt the psychic before, but things just didn't add up. "I don't understand. It was corporeal. How can it be a spirit? I touched it. It touched me."

"These are magic's more powerful than witchcraft," She explained. "Or different, at least. It's not the same kinds of sorcery as you are used to dealing with. The Indians had a way of making things happen that you or I may never understand."

But Sam still wasn't convinced. "It didn't take on human form," he protested. "It was a bear. And then a wolf. And Bobby said this most recent attack seemed like a moose."

Missouri shrugged. "Like I said, Sam. These are powers we may never understand. The Indian people worshiped multiple gods; many of them animal-like in form. I don't have an explanation for you. I can only tell you what I sense from the material you've provided me with. If you want more you're going to need to do some research of your own."

And Sam did just that. As Dean slept he worked away in the meager light coming in from the hallway. Missouri curled up in a chair in the corner, the unspoken decision between herself and Bobby to never leave the boys completely alone preventing her from seeking a restful nights sleep at the hotel. Bobby went to the hotel for his share of sleep. Sam was urged to do the same, but he refused, asserting that he needed to use Dean's sleeping hours to do his research. He was adamant; Dean absolutely could not find out that, after all they'd been through, the creature was still creating havoc.

Research turned up several interesting facts that, while they didn't exactly help to ascertain how to kill the thing, at least gave Sam an understanding of why it appeared the way it did. The Algonquin Tribe thrived on hunting and were expert at skinning animals. But by the late 18th century the British had invaded their lands and began pushing them further and further back. Under the guise of assistance, the British began accepting fur trade from the tribe, and then convinced them to instruct the British in their hunting methods. Fewer and fewer trades took place as more and more the British became competent in their own hunts. Desolation and starvation became a prominent factor for the tribe and their numbers dwindled as they lost more land. In some instances the members of the tribe were slain when they refused to move from their sacred lands. And then he found it. The key to their hunt lay in a series of unexplained animal attacks that took place on land the tribe refused to vacate; land that housed a sacred burial ground for some of the tribe's most prominent and esteemed chiefs. After several warriors were murdered protecting the land the tables seemed to turn and suddenly the British found themselves the victims of brutal attacks by vicious animals. The strange part: there were no Algonquin fatalities to these attacks. _Yatzee_.

Sam figured this is where the curse came into play. What he couldn't understand, though, is why, after all these years, had the spirit come back to play again. Another hour scouring the internet turned up no other leads and Sam found himself at an impasse. He knew the cause, or at least a vague understanding of the cause, but that just wasn't enough.

A hastened glance at the clock surprised the young hunter to discover that he'd been at his search for close to five hours, and that it was almost two in the morning. Dean hadn't stirred since Sam started his research and he said a silent prayer thanking the hospital for whatever drugs they'd deemed best for the man's system. Missouri was fast asleep in one of the two uncomfortable chairs in the room and he hated to wake her just to run his ideas past her. He preferred to wait until he could broach his finds on both her and Bobby at the same time. And with that, he found he had nothing more to do but sleep.

Dragging the other chair up to Dean's bed, Sam curled himself up as much as his lanky frame would allow, kicking off his shoes for more comfort. He used the edge of his brother's pillow as one for himself as well and within minutes his exhausted body was asleep.

Waking was far less simple and just over an hour later Sam was pulled from his much needed slumber with a jolt. He sat up fast, groggy and disoriented, but quickly recovering as he noted the cause of his alarm.

Dean was sitting up in bed, sweat rolling off his forehead as he panted heavily. His cry of anguish as he was torn from fitful sleep was the noise that had woken Sam up, and Sam now jumped from his chair and onto the bed in a single swift motion, arms wrapping around his hyperventilating brother. Dean was now doubled over, hands frantically pawing at the noticeable emptiness where his leg should have been, mumbling to himself in a low chant, the sound practically incomprehensible to Sam's nervous ears. "IcanfeelitIcanfeelitIcanfeelit–"

From her chair in the corner, Missouri also heard the commotion and jumped up, crossing the room to offer her assistance if necessary, but staying out of the way until she knew she was needed. She crossed her arms against her chest, sad eyes betraying the sympathy and pity that she knew Dean wouldn't want. Fortunately for her, he was too messed up to see it.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Sam tugged gently at his brother's arms, pulling him back up and resting the panicked hunter against his chest and waiting patiently for Dean to gather himself.

"It hurts, Sammy," he moaned, leaning desperately into his brother's embrace. "I can feel it. Oh God, it hurts so bad."

"What hurts, Dean? Where does it hurt?" Sam's arms wrapped tighter, offering what little bit of comfort he could provide.

"Where is it? Why can I feel it? Why does it hurt?" Dean's sobs grew louder, more desperate as he rocked back and forth still staring in confusion at the bottom of the bed.

"Dean!" Sam yelled louder, reaching one hand up and firmly grasping his brother's chin, turning it gently towards his own face. "Dean, talk to me," he pleaded, eyes searching for any sign that Dean was even aware that he was being spoken to. "What hurts?!"

For several seconds Dean seemed to focus on Sam's face, and then he wrenched his chin from Sam's grasp and went back to staring at his missing leg. "Christ, Sam, my whole fucking leg feels like it's on fire. My leg. My calf. My FOOT!"

"Your foot?" Sam questioned nervously, doubt obvious in his voice. "Dean, man–"

"I know," Dean spat out defensively before Sam could vocalize his doubts. "I know, Sam. It's crazy. But I can feel it. It's not in my head, I swear. I can feel my whole leg, just like when you first pulled me from the trap. Everything hurts. I swear it, Sammy. I swear I can feel it." Desperation took hold and he swivelled his body enough to bury his head in Sam's shoulder and grab on tight to the younger man, sinking into his nervous embrace.

"Shhh, Dean, it's okay," Sam soothed, holding the man tight in his arms. "I believe you. I do." He looked up, gaze locking with Missouri's and he didn't need to say anything more.

The maternal woman sprinted from the room as fast as her arthritic body would allow in search of a doctor and returned minutes later with a young intern in tow, her doubt and displeasure at only being able to provide a novice MD apparent in her expression. Dr. Hurley had gone home for the night, and interns typically roamed the halls in the late hours of the night. It was either that or wait until morning for a solution to the problem. Dean couldn't wait that long.

The intern couldn't have been any older than Dean himself, but he carried himself well and made an exceptional effort at pulling off credibility as he crossed the room to the anguished patient curled in his brother's arms. "I'm Dr. Tolka," the dark-haired doctor introduced himself, bypassing the pleasantries of a handshake to assess his patient.

Sam filled him in quickly, voice unwavering and confident as he told the doctor that Dean was feeling pain in his missing leg. Sam still held his doubts, but Dean needed reassurance that Sam believed him.

Dr. Tolka's explanation didn't do much to calm Dean down or ease Sam's discomfort. He called it Phantom Pain, and explained that it wasn't uncommon for amputees to experience sensations seeming to arise in the missing limb. It sounded supernatural; something they should have been able to fight. Sam found himself desperately resisting the urge to grab a gun and blast the area where the leg would be with several rounds of rock salt.

But it wasn't supernatural, and there was nothing Sam could do but sit there and hold his suddenly needy brother as he fought through the pain. Sam wasn't used to this Dean; this Dean who was altogether too frantic and too vulnerable and too...scared. He had no idea how to deal with this Dean. He didn't know how to help him, how to comfort him. Because he'd never seen this Dean before.

There were too many drugs already floating around in Dean's system to give him much more for the pain. The wound was still too new, too tender, to provide any form of massage to the remaining stump. Dr. Tolka asked a nurse to bring a heating pad and it was wrapped loosely around the gauze wrapped portion of Dean's leg. But that was the best he could offer. That, and an off-handed suggestion that Dean simply push it out of his thoughts, which would have been fine if it didn't feel like bolt after bolt of white-hot lightening was invading every synapse of the missing limb.

Several minutes passed after the child doctor left, and the three remaining in the room sat there in anguished fear. Dean didn't talk; just groaned through the pain as he squeezed tightly to Sam's offered hand. He flinched and bucked, waiting for the heat to do its job and Sam flinched and winced along with Dean as the choppy movements continuously collided with the healing injuries in Sam's chest and shoulder. He worked through his own pain, and didn't let Dean know he was making Sam hurt. Because anything Sam was feeling couldn't possibly compare to the pain that Dean was feeling, and it wasn't fair that Sam could walk away from _his_ hunt with wounds soon to heal while Dean would have to suffer for the rest of his life.

The pain finally subsided to a dull throb and Dean leaned back against his pillows in defeat, eyes closed tightly as he tried to regain his lost breath. Sam relaxed, too, although guilt wasn't far from his mind as he realized he was relieved to be free of the constant pain that Dean's movements had been causing him. He dug his hand into the wounds on his chest, reawakening the pain as punishment for his unlawful thoughts.

"It felt so real, Sammy," Dean finally sobbed after taking a couple minutes to catch his breath. His hands fidgeted nervously, as though he didn't know what to do with them now that the need to hold on to his brother had passed. He ran them through his hair and down his face, bunched and smoothed the sheets that lay across his midsection, prodded at the IV port that entered through the back of his right hand.

"I know, Dean."

"I mean...before I opened my eyes I thought for sure my leg was there again. I thought...I thought..."

"What did you think?" Sam prompted, gently.

Dean turned his head away from Sam, eyes closing tightly against the threat of tears. He was silent for a long time, gathering his thoughts and deciding whether or not he actually wanted to tell Sam. He did. He wanted to share; needed to share. "I thought this whole week had just been some really, really graphic nightmare. I thought I was going to wake up and my leg would still be there and you could stitch me up and we could get on with our lives."

He continued to refuse to look at Sam as he slammed the palm of his fist against his forehead. His voice caught in his throat. "God Sam, I don't want to live like this," Dean announced miserably. "I don't think I can."

Sam had no words that would comfort his brother. He'd already tried the conventional responses, and they clearly had done nothing to encourage the man. _You'll be okay_ - but would he? _It will get easier_ - but would it? Really? This was unchartered territory, for both of them. Sam had never tread these grounds. He'd never dealt with the in-between. Their father's death had been horrible, and the guilt Dean had carried with him for months had put a strain on their relationship. But in the end they had worked through it, knowing without doubt that their father had sacrificed himself for them.

And they had all prepared themselves for their own deaths, and each other's deaths. Their line of work; death was inevitable. But this...this line in-between death where there wasn't dying, but there really wasn't living anymore...none of them had faced that possibility and Sam didn't know how to help Dean face it now.

He didn't have the answers; didn't know for sure if everything could be the same. He didn't know if a prosthetic leg would allow Dean to continue hunting, and how the hell did you ask a therapist if it would? Sam didn't know what a prosthesis cost, and if they would be able to afford one in the first place. He had no idea how much work it would take to train Dean to walk if they could afford one. And would Dean even go for it?

Voice filled with far more confidence than Sam knew he had in him, he spoke the only thing he could think to say, hoping it would be enough. "You survived for a reason, Dean. We both did. There's no medical reason to explain why either one of us managed to survive such life threatening injuries going for so long without proper treatment. We have to assume there's some reason we survived this, and you _have_ to know that you _can_ live through this. If you can't do it for you, Dean, then please...do it for me."

_**A/N: Although some of the history behind the Algonquin tribe is accurate, I took liberties with certain aspects in order to make it fit this story. Don't shoot the author. Send me a review instead!**_


	10. Chapter 10

**_Guys, thanks so much for all your encouragement and thoughts so far. I truly appreciate each and every one of your reviews. There is one annonymous reviewer who I wasn't able to reply to in person, but I want very much to respond. You know who you are, but this may apply to other's too. First of all, I take everything everyone writes and suggests to heart. If I'm writing something completely wrong, I hope you all will tell me, so that I can fix it before it gets completely out of hand. That said, please know that I have no intention to make Dean the poster child for disabilities. I do, however, feel that Dean can and will overcome any obstacle in his way, be it something as small and insignificant as a closed door to something as large and life-altering as losing a leg. He may not always be happy about it, and he may not come out of it the same Dean as he once was, and I can absolutely see suicidal thoughts and self-depricating tendancies along the way, but in the end Sam is the most important thing to Dean and he would do just about anything for his little brother. However, I respect the belief's of anyone who thinks differently, and I can only hope that I will manage to do this entire story justice and that, in the end, everyone will be truly satisfied with the result. Please don't hesitate to share your ideas and views with me; it definitely gives me food for thought. Thanks so much for all your wonderful reviews. Enjoy the next chapter..._**

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**_If you recognize 'em, I don't own 'em. _**

Anger became Dean's dominant emotion. It was his strongest emotion, and it would last longer than any of the other's. Everything was fair game; nobody was off limits. Sam seemed to get the brunt of it. But he saw it as his punishment for getting Dean into this mess in the first place, and accepted the burden unflinchingly. If only he knew that the frequent and pointed attacks more than likely came out of the fact that Dean trusted him, knew he was safe with little brother no matter how much shit he threw at him. In a way Sam did know that, because he trusted Dean in the same way, but the guilt that flowed through Sam seemed to dominate, and no matter what he did he just couldn't see past that. So Sam vowed to do whatever Dean needed of him, no matter the reason.

Dean wouldn't allow anyone to touch him, except for Sam, which proved problematic on more than one occasion when Sam wasn't there, or when Dean's 'nothing below the belt' rule came into play. He'd gone to the bathroom one day, successfully wheeling himself into the adjoining room and pulling himself to a stand with the aid of the strategically placed grab bars. But his balance was off and he wavered unsteadily on his one leg for several seconds before finally dropping to the floor in a heap, painful daggers shooting through his stump and fogging his mind. No one had been in the room when he'd made his attempt and Dean had had to call out for help. Embarrassment at his weakness reddened his cheeks when Lily ran in to help, and he swatted her away with a growl as her hands went to his armpits to pull him up.

"Get Sam," Dean demanded, shrugging from her assistance.

She had replied calmly, backing off for a minute but only to readjust the wheelchair. "Sam isn't here, Dean. I think he went to the hotel for something. Can I just help you back to bed?"

"I said get Sam!" Dean screamed louder, the redness in his face no longer from embarrassment, but now anger.

"Dean, Sam won't be back for a while," Lily reasoned, crouching down to be at eye level with her irate patient. "You're going to be waiting a long time."

His anger intensified and he pounded his fist hard into the ceramic tiles lining the bathroom floor as his words came out clear and enunciated. "I. Said. Get. My. Fucking. Brother."

Lily had shrugged. It wouldn't exactly hurt him to remain on the floor; she just thought he would be better off in the bed. But the young man would have it his way. "I'll see if I can get in touch with Sam," she soothed, standing and retreating from the room.

It was another twenty minutes before Sam made it to the hospital and he found Dean in the same position Lily had left him in, back against the tub, fly still open, shoulders hunched in defeat.

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam was breathless from his sprint through the parking lot, and mildly irritated at the reason for needing to come running in the first place.

"Just help me up, Sam," Dean growled, avoiding the question and avoiding eye contact.

Sam did as ordered, but continued to demand answers as he pulled Dean back up into the waiting wheelchair. "You could have gotten help from one of the staff," Sam pushed. "Hell, Dean, you probably could have gotten yourself back into this chair. I mean you got in here on your own, didn't you? You're missing a leg, dude; you're not paralyzed."

"My leg hurt, dammit. And I needed your help. Those damn nurses don't know what their doing. Light fairy couldn't pick up a sack of flower, let alone my muscled ass."

Sam snorted. "You called me out here because you didn't trust the nurses to pick you up? That's their job, Dean."

"Look Sam, if you don't want to help me then fine, go back to whatever it was that's more important than your own brother. I'll be fine without you." Dean withdrew into himself, angrily squirming against Sam's hands as they finished dropping him into the chair.

It shut Sam up, the guilt once again eating away at his core and he circled back around to face his stubborn brother. "Look, Dean, I'm sorry. I don't mind being here. I don't mind running to help when you need me. I just didn't understand why–"

"Because I wanted _you,_" Dean spat out, interrupting Sam. "They don't need to be casting their pitying eyes on me. And that's what I see - pity and sympathy. Poor crippled bastard, lost his leg and now he can't get up. I don't need them Sam."

Sam had sighed, unsure how to reply to that. He noticed the open fly at that point and, without thinking, leaned over to fix it.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dean screamed, slapping Sam's hand away as his little brother stammered out a weak reply. "Just get me back to my bed and get the hell out of here."

Sam had done just that, no longer willing to encourage his brother's tirade. He kept silent, biting his tongue as Dean spewed out insults and curses in the struggle to get him back into bed. Grunting a good-bye, Sam stormed from the room, leaving Dean to stew in his own juices.

Like a ticking time bomb, Dean was so hot and cold he was practically bi-polar. One minute he could be involved in a halfway normal conversation, or calmly watching TV, and then something would be said that set him off and Dean was on a rampage again. Sam now cringed every time Dean asked for help to and from the bathroom, into or out of the wheelchair, or for any other injury related assistance because what normally started out as calm interaction would undoubtedly become an onslaught of anger induced insults and expletives that would leave Sam reeling and desperate for air.

Sam spent less time with Dean, and Missouri and Bobby only came for a couple hours a day - if that. Not that their reduction in visit time came without lack of trying, because for the first few days Sam had refused to budge when Dean's anger got the best of him, coming to the breaking point and beyond as he was subjected to words that Dean never would have said to him before. But it soon became apparent that the more time Dean spent alone, the less time he spent on a tirade, and so Sam had taken to disappearing several times throughout the day just to give his brother time to calm down. He had to admit that the time away worked to his advantage in the research department, and it helped not to need an excuse to disappear. But in reality he would have liked to need that excuse; because it would mean that Dean was Dean again. Snarky, sarcastic, practical jokester Dean; not sullen, mopey angry shell of Dean.

They were banned from the cafeteria after Dean threw a tantrum in there. It started off normally, and Dean had practically begged Sam to take him, because he was _'just so damn tired of staring at the same white walls day in and day out.' _And so Sam had broken him out of his room for lunch. But Dean began feeling self-conscious as he looked down at the neatly folded and pinned jeans material that stopped just below his stump, but should have been covering his missing leg, and as they entered the cafeteria he'd immediately convinced himself that everyone was staring. He started off staring back, shooting glare after nasty glare at anyone who dared glance in his direction. And then he got vocal. "What the hell are you staring at?" he screamed at a pregnant woman and her two young children, who had happened to glance in his direction while in search of the juice machine. "What, you've never seen a guy missing a leg before?" he snapped at a teenager whose gaze lingered a half second too long while looking for his girlfriend. "Just turn the fuck away!" he growled to an old man teetering wildly on his cane as he made his way past the boys to the check out line. Sam reprimanded Dean for every ill-spoken word he'd uttered, while shooting apologetic glances to the innocent bystanders who were staring more because of the scene Dean was making then his leg.

But that wasn't the half of it. Once they made it out to the tables Dean just got worse. It was a vicious cycle. His paranoia had him yelling at everyone in sight, and as his voice grew so did the murmurs and stares of those patronizing the cafeteria. And finally Dean had had enough. Sam had been trying unsuccessfully to calm his acrimonious brother and his eyes widened in time to see Dean grab the Styrofoam bowl of chocolate pudding from his tray and launch it halfway across the room. If Sam had been more prepared, or if his reflexes weren't moving sluggishly from lack of sleep, he might have managed to stop the full fledged attack. But instead, he watched helplessly, in horror, as the loaded grenade flew over the heads of several diners before coming to a sloppy rest on the head of a quickly balding teenage cancer patient.

The kid hadn't seen the attack coming, and by sheer chance of fate, happened to be one of the rare few who hadn't been ogling his brother's rampage. Sam quickly slid down in his seat, face reddening, as he made a quick mental calculation of just how stealthily he could sneak his brother from the room. But the loud and simultaneous gasp coming from the multitude of crowd who had witnessed the attack immediately staunched that poorly thought out plan and Sam found himself choosing a different path. After a quick reprimand and glare at his brother, where the expression told the older man that he would _deal with him later_, Sam was up and out of his seat, rushing to the poor boy who was still sitting, shell-shocked, in his seat, mouth open.

"My God, I am _so_ sorry about this," Sam declared in horrified apology. He quickly grabbed a napkin aiming to began wiping the brown mess from the teens head and gown. The boy's mother was faster, though, and she grabbed Sam's wrist before he could proceed with the cleaning efforts.

"I've got this," she glowered icily. "Just get _him_ out of here."

Sam stood, stumbling over his huge feet as he back-pedaled, continuing to mutter his apologies as he returned to Dean's side.

"I can't believe you just did that," he hissed at his glowering brother as he grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and roughly pushed the man from the room.

They'd had a long talk after that, Dean and Missouri and Bobby and Sam. They had approached Dean with stern looks in their eyes and stances that meant business. But in the end, it seemed that Dean was too wrapped up in his own anger and self-pity to hear anything that his family had to say to him. And it wouldn't take long to discover that the talk meant nothing to the disparaging hunter.

He took to throwing things on an almost daily basis. A vase of flowers, sent from Algonquin's park rangers met it's end in a shattered heap of glass, water, and petals against the opposite wall of Dean's room. Several plastic drink glasses ended up cracked, and more water was spilled when they hit the closed bathroom door. At least part of every meal managed to find its way out into the hallway or on Sam or Bobby or Missouri or one of the nurses until Bobby finally put his foot down and ordered that Dean be hand fed and that no more than a bite of food be placed in his reach at a time. It was a childish response to a childish action, and Dean hated every minute of it, but he wouldn't agree not to throw any more food and so the order stood.

His therapist would no longer enter the room, in direct response to the spew of expletives Dean had launched at him from the minute that poor unsuspecting victim dared to enter the room and suggest he attempt some exercises to strengthen the soon to be deteriorating muscles in what remained of his leg. "I don't need your fuckin' pansy-assed attempts at makin' me get better" he growled to the muscular, mid-thirties Mexican who, heaven help him, had then remained for another twenty minutes before giving up. As he left, a poorly aimed remote control showed him the way out, barely missing his head by an inch and shattering against the door frame instead.

The final straw came when Dean's verbal spews found their way to a five year old girl whose innocent question of 'Hey mistah, how'd you get your owie?' had Dean replying with a 'Fuck off' and a shove to move her out of the way that, while unintended to be harmful, still found the little girl wailing several feet away on the floor. Dean felt worse about that than Sam would ever know, but Sam's reaction to the move was so severe that Dean wasn't given his chance to make any apologies to the little girl.

Sam had back-handed him just seconds after the little girl went down, and although the younger Winchester immediately recoiled and spewed out a barrage of 'I'm so sorry's,' his anger and astonishment at Dean's actions was unmistakable. Sam dropped to his knees beside the little girl and simultaneously pulled her against him while looking around for a parent, a warning glare aimed at Dean still sitting just below the surface. To his surprise, no parents emerged or came running for the girl and Sam found it his job to comfort her when he would much rather have been scolding his brother.

"Sweetheart, are you alright?" he cooed to the sniffling child, rocking her side to side as his arm snaked out to grab the pink teddy bear she'd dropped in her descent. "He didn't mean to scare you. He's just feeling..." Sam hesitated as he glanced up and saw actual remorse in the older hunter's eyes. "...sad."

"Why is he sad?" the little girl questioned, curiosity beginning to override her initial shock at being brushed aside by an adult.

Sam looked up at Dean again, wondering if he preferred to field the question for the child, but Dean was now looking down into his lap, purposefully preventing Sam access to read his expression.

"Well," Sam hedged, choosing his words carefully, "because he got hurt."

The little girl's eye's brightened just a bit more as she looked up at Sam with recognition in her eyes. "My Daddy got hurt," she announced, just enough pride behind her tone to make Sam realize she didn't know just how bad the meaning of that word could be sometimes. "He's asleep right now and he doesn't know he's hurt. My mommy cries a lot 'cause he won't wake up."

Sam nodded in understanding. "That happens sometimes. Some people sleep to let their bodies have lots of time to heal. And sometimes, when they do wake up, they get very angry because they aren't healed enough, yet." He looked pointedly at Dean, hoping his juvenile explanation of the situation might through his thick skull, but his stubborn brother was having none of it.

"Did he sleep?" she asked, looking at Dean with huge, round eyes, awed by the possibility that Dean might have been like her Daddy.

"He did," Sam confirmed.

"How did he get his owie?" the little girl asked innocently.

"Sammm..." Dean growled the warning from his position in the chair. _Shut up, Sam. She doesn't need to know my business. Just keep your big fat mouth shut._

Sam chose to ignore his brother, but did change the line of questioning. At some point, he needed to return this little girl to her family and he needed to know her name in order to do that. "Sweetheart, my name is Sam. That's my big brother Dean. What's your name?"

"Emma," she announced proudly, puffing out her overall clad chest and pointing proudly to herself with her thumb.

"That's a very pretty name, Emma," Sam replied. "Is your Daddy somewhere on this floor?"

"Yeah," she supplied, pointing down the hallway. "He's down there. Mommy's with him. She told me to wait out here. How did your brother get his owie?"

_Damn the kid was persistent. _Sam sighed and looked back to Dean again, wincing at the daggers he was shooting toward them. _I thought he liked kids._ There was no simple way to explain the injury, especially to a five year old, and he knew Dean would be pissed if he continued too much longer with this conversation. "Emma, why don't we get you back to your mommy and daddy," he tried instead, climbing to his feet and gently steering the little girl down the hall. She braced her legs and held tight, her little body refusing to move forward as she spun on her heel and faced Sam again.

"My daddy fell off a...a...calf holding," she announced, struggling over the word scaffolding. Sam chuckled to himself, and eyed the little girl again.

"He did, did he? That must have hurt."

"He hit his head," she continued, almost fearfully this time. "And now he looks like a mummy. Mummy's are kinda scary."

"Kid, get over it, Mummy's aren't real." Dean finally broke in to the conversation, snapping in irritation that this sniveling brat was holding him up.

Sam glared at Dean, fighting everything in him to keep from slapping the older man across the cheek again and ordering him to snap out of his vicious slump.

Emma's face screwed up in protest, determined to convince Dean that Mummy's were real. "There was a book I read–"

"Kid, just go back to your Daddy and hold his hand. He needs you with him. Get over your stupid fear of Mummy's and be with your Dad."

"Dean!" Sam hissed, eyes darting back and forth between his brother and the little girl. The words were harsh, but the tone was cruel. The ill-spoken pep talk did it's job and the poor thing ran off in tears, crying for her Mommy as Sam turned back to Dean, rage behind his own expression. "That's it, Dean! I've had enough."

Instead of shrinking away as Sam had hoped, Dean sat up straighter, challenging his little brother. _Go ahead, Sammy. Kick my ass. Tell me what a horrible person I am. Tell me I didn't deserve to survive._

Sam looked around, conscious of the fact that they were already creating a scene in the courtyard. Despite the fact that he was infuriated, Sam still loved his brother, and he respected Dean too much to embarrass him more in front of a crowd. Sam grabbed the handles of the wheel chair roughly and shoved Dean down the hall back to his room before scolding him.

"This isn't working," Sam growled the minute they were hidden safely behind a closed door. "You're being cruel and completely irrational, and that was so _completely _uncalled for. I don't even know who you are any more, Dean. What the hell has gotten into you?"

Dean's head shot up fast enough to cause whiplash and he glared at Sam, anger in his voice mixed with sniveling sarcasm. "Well excuse me for not being Little Miss Mary Sunshine while I watch my entire life go down the tubes. Sorry Sam, next time I'll be sure to be a happy cripple."

Arms flailing wildly, Sam glared right back. "That was a little girl for crist sakes! A curious five year old little girl whose Daddy is in a coma down the hall, and you might as well have sliced her head off and run her through with a wooden stake for all the compassion you showed her."

"I think she took it in stride," Dean answered blandly.

"Dean, this can't continue!" Sam's exasperation was becoming more than apparent, and the hunter feared for what he might be capable of if he didn't get through to Dean soon. "I know this sucks, man. Trust me; I get it..."

_You don't get it. How could you possibly understand what I'm going through?_

"...But you can't take out your anger on every single person who gets in your way..."

_Watch me, Sam. Come stop me._

"It's one thing to dump this on me. I'm your brother, and I love you, and I can take it. But you are terrifying little kids now. This just isn't like you, Dean!"

_Yeah, but only having one leg isn't like me either._ "Tell me what you want me to do, Sam! Tell me who you fucking want me to be, because I'm drowning here, and I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do about it!"

Sam softened when he noticed Dean fighting back tears because damn, he'd never seen his brother so close to tears so often in all their lives. It was unnatural. Synonymous with the twilight zone. "You _talk_ to me, Dean! You _tell_ me what you're feeling and why you're feeling that way. You _tell_ me what you need to feel better, and if you don't know then you tell me that, and trust that we will figure it out together."

Now Sam was close to tears, too, desperately searching to get through to a brother who was just so angry and so far gone that he didn't know if there was any lifeline left to grab onto. But he had to try.

"The thing is, Dean, that...hell...you just can't go off guns blazing destroying everything in your path. Shit, Dean, you're spiraling out of control, man and you're scaring the living daylights out of the people that are trying to help you. They don't deserve that!"

"And I do?" Dean retorted. His voice wavered as he tried to control the emotions that threatened to take over his body. "Did I _deserve_ to have my fucking leg taken off by that damn bear trap? Did I _deserve_ to lose my mother when I was four years old? Did I _deserve _to spend my entire life hunting that damn fire demon and every other God damn baddie monster that got in our way? Shit, Sam, when have I ever _deserved_ anything that's happened in my life but I deal with it anyway because that's life. So you'll excuse me if I don't feel bad for dumping a little bit of my shit on these people who truly have no idea what the real meaning of 'life sucks' really is?"

_So that's what this is about. _The reality of this situation finally slammed full frontal into Sam's skull, knocking him off balance as twenty-three years worth of pent up pain and anger and frustration spewed from Dean's mouth. Losing his leg was just the tipping point to all the shit he'd had to deal with in his life, and fuck if it wasn't fair and deserved that Dean had let his entire life be turned upside down and inside out to follow their father on his blind and irrational hunt for vindication. He'd spent his entire life pretending he was fine, normal, peachy. But it was all and act.

Somehow, deep down, Sam had known there was a lot more haunting his brother than he'd ever been willing to admit. But Sam liked sarcastic, over-confident, pain-masked Dean, so he'd never really gone looking for an explanation for how _anyone_ could grow up so totally _normal_ and _accepting_ of such a fucked up crazy world they'd lived in. Now he wished he had.

Dean was shaking. Hands fisted, face red, teeth clenched, and shaking from anger. From pain. From fear.

Sam didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to respond. "Dean...I'm sorry. I had no idea." He spoke softly, the only words that seemed appropriate, and yet...they were so far from fixing things he might as well have been on Pluto.

"Hmmph."

"Dean, please tell me what I can do to help." Sam hated that he was begging. He hated that he was so lost. _Dean would know what to do. Dean wouldn't have to ask. _But Sam was floundering, so completely out of his league on this thing. Sam wasn't the protector, he'd never been the savior. And he sure as hell wasn't used to being the fixer.

It didn't take long for a reply, but when it came Dean was so weak and timid and...young. Sam's heart broke and he agreed immediately, not considering the consequences.

"Please, Sammy, just get me out of here."


	11. Chapter 11

_**I just want to say that you all are awesome. I'm loving writing this story, and would do it just for myself. But the fact that you are all giving me a chance to share it with you makes it so much more worth it. Thanks a ton - both to those who do review and to those who just read. If you get a chance, please drop me a line. Let me know what you think, let me know what you want to see, let me know what you want done better. I'm open to all suggestions! Enjoy...**_

_Shit_. He'd said yes. Why the hell had he said yes? Dean was safe in the hospital. Not just safe, but oblivious. And yet, here was Sam, signing his still stewing brother out of the hospital AMA. Except that Dr. Hurley really hadn't seemed to protest all that much, and he almost seemed eager to speed up the process of paperwork to get rid of the angry young man who'd been terrorizing his staff for over a week now.

He'd called Bobby and Missouri in a panic after realizing his mistake and Bobby had driven right over. But Missouri had remained at the hotel, and her lack of presence gave Sam all the confirmation he needed because Missouri had stayed behind to prepare the room for Dean. There was no turning back from this now. He had said yes, and now Dean was leaving the hospital and joining the rest of them at the hotel.

It wasn't that Sam didn't want Dean home, or as "home" as a rinky dink motel in the middle of Toronto, Canada could get. But the timing just wasn't right, and he had absolutely no idea how to explain his and Bobby's absence all day tomorrow when they went back after the thing in the Algonquin woods. And he sure as hell didn't want to subject poor Missouri to Dean's wrath for an entire day and maybe longer. He had no doubt the woman could handle his stubborn mule of a brother, he just wasn't sure it was fair to make her have to. One look at Bobby's face told Sam the older hunter was thinking the exact same thoughts.

But what was done was done. Final. No turning back. Dean was packed, and dressed, and clearly eager to get out of the prison that had held him for going on three weeks, and there was no mistaking the mediocre hint of a smile on the man's face. That alone was enough to ease Sam's confidence enough to finish signing the papers and collect his brother. But smile or no, Sam's doubts still remained.

Lily escorted them to the car, her unshakeable self-assurance making her one of the very few staff members who still willingly tolerated Dean's rage after having multiple objects thrown at them. She pushed the wheelchair while Sam and Bobby juggled Dean's bags and medications, several more weeks worth of bandages, a set of forearm crutches, and a handful of recommendations to rehab facilities in Canada as well as Kansas, where they would be going when they finally left the country.

They exited the double sliding doors of the hospital and pulled up beside the waiting Chevy Impala. Dean swallowed hard, his reunion with his beloved car bittersweet. He wouldn't be driving for a while, not with Sam mother-henning him to death. He _could _drive if he really wanted to. The car was an automatic, and since you used the right foot to work the pedals, he really hadn't lost anything there. But Sam would say no - he had no doubt - and it was so much easier not to ask then to hear Sam's obnoxiously apologetic tone telling Dean 'no.' So he said a quiet hello to his girl and silently made his own apology for getting hurt and abandoning her, promising to be back soon.

Bobby threw the bags in the trunk while Sam and Lily hovered over Dean as he hopped into the passenger seat, refusing help, but silently grateful for the outstretched hands ready to steady him if he teetered. And teeter he did, as the jump off the curb was misjudged and he stumbled and tipped into the side of the car. _Dammit, this sucks. _But he recovered quickly and shrugged from their ministrations with an annoyed growl. "I got it. I'm fine."

Sam continued to hover obnoxiously as he slid the rest of the way into the car, one hand gently steering his still tender limb out of the way of potentially painful obstructions as the other hand clung tightly to the door frame. He watched in sullen distaste as Lily folded up the wheelchair and handed it to Bobby to stuff in the backseat. God, how he hated that thing. He'd give anything to get rid of it, to get the damn thing out of his sight. But his therapy efforts had been put on the back burner when he chose to launch a full assault on the entire hospital staff and he still lacked the proper balance to remain solely on the crutches. It was too much of a risk.

"You take care of yourself, Dean." Lily's soft voice pulled him from his thoughts and he looked up to see her mega-watt smile shining down on him. Even now, putting him in the car to leave, she was still trying to win him over. _I could give her that, couldn't I?_ He questioned, trying to determine how much pride would be lost in admitting his faults.

He finally nodded. "I'll do my best. Thanks for all your help. I– I'm sorry. I know I was a bit of a ... pain."

She seemed to relax at that, as she winked back at him. "Can't say I'd do it any differently if the tables were turned," she offered, giving Dean his out. "Just try to remember that with your brother and your friends. They care about you so much."

Lips tight, Dean nodded again. He knew when he was being called out. Lily may have been more subtle than most, but she still got her point across. "I couldn't have asked for better."

Sam's body fell heavily into the driver's side of the car, causing her to dip before regaining her equilibrium, and Dean knew it was time to go. _Thank God._ He pulled his door shut and waved to Lily out the window as Sam started the car and gently eased it onto the road.

"You're sure you want to do this?" Sam asked one more time as he put his blinker on to gain access to the four lane. In his mirror he could see Bobby's old clunker of a truck pull in behind them. "There's still time, Dean."

The plea in his brother's tone didn't go unnoticed, but Dean ignored it. "I've been cooped up in there for far too long, Sammy-boy," he sneered. "It's time for me to get on with my cripple-assed life."

Sam sighed, but said nothing more. He hated the labels his brother had been putting on himself; hated the references to being a crip and a gimp, and he especially hated hearing Dean call himself a loser. But asking Dean to stop using those words was like talking to a brick wall, and Sam had finally given up. If Dean wanted to label himself there was nothing he could do about it. He could only hope that Dean would grow tired of the terms if no one acknowledged them.

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A week ago Sam and Missouri and Bobby had discussed whether or not to switch one of their rooms to a handicap accessible room for when Dean did come home. It had been a long discussion, the argument of whether Dean's needs should come before his desires. He _needed _things to be easier on him physically, needed the additional bars to help him stand in the bathroom and the extra space for the wheelchair or crutches. But was that added accessibility really worth the fight that would undoubtedly ensue when he realized what they had done for him?

Because, on the other hand, Dean also _needed_ to feel as normal as possible. He needed things to be as close to the usual as possible so he might stop feeling so sorry for himself. Would he feel more vulnerable if he fell because there was no additional assistance, or would he feel more useless if there was.

In the end, Sam decided it would be more detrimental to Dean's ego if they assumed he needed help. And it stood to reason that his stubborn older brother would demand they move back to a normal room anyway. They kept the rooms they were already in, and Missouri was standing just outside the boys' room as Sam pulled the Classic car into the lot.

"Dean, honey, welcome home!" Missouri greeted, crossing the short distance to Dean's side of the car and yanking the door open in her excitement.

Dean looked up in surprise, surveying the sparsely populated motel parking lot and the run-down building in front of him and smirked. "Home..."

Missouri ignored his sarcastic tone as she continued to hang on the door. "Did you have a good drive? Any trouble checking out?"

A shrug was the only response she got, but the psychic wasn't about to give up. She had been pushing aside the fact that Dean didn't talk to them, didn't express his feelings to anyone, but it needed to end now. With him out of the safety of the hospital, far away from immediate medical attention, there was no way she would let his emotions go unexpressed. If she couldn't get answers the conventional way, psychic means could be attempted. She knew how much the young man would feel violated if she read his mind, but if that's what it took to get through to him...well, she would try just about anything. _Just a little peek._

But seconds after she opened up her mind to Dean's thoughts she closed it again, tears brimming mere millimeters from her eyes. The despair the young man felt was just too much for her to withstand. Thoughts of suicide were prevalent, intermingled with harsh adjectives. _Loser. Failure. Worthless. _She couldn't imagine what it felt like to be him, and it just wasn't right. All the lives he'd saved. All the evil he'd destroyed. And for what?

Turning away for just a second, the psychic gulped. _Can't let him know that I've seen..._ God, it was just too terrible to even think about. She bit her lip, blanked her face, and turned back to her young friend. "What do you say we get you into the room?"

Dean nodded his agreement and waited for Sam to circle the car and open the back door. If he had any idea that Missouri had been swimming in his subconscious for a few seconds he gave no indication. From the corner of his eye he saw the wheelchair being pulled from the back seat and he uttered a low groan of disapproval. "No wheelchair, Sam. Get the crutches."

"Dean..." Sam sighed, and hesitated.

"I'm not using that thing if I can help it," Dean warned.

"But you heard the doctor. If you fall; if you injure your leg again it's that much longer before you can try a prosthesis. The risk isn't worth it."

Dean swung himself around as fast as his weakened body would allow and glared at his baby brother. "So I just won't fall."

"Let him try it," Bobby interrupted, planting a hand on Sam's shoulder, the silence in the move filling in the blanks. _He's already feeling desperate and worthless, Sam. Don't demean him anymore than you absolutely have to."_

Sam sighed again, and shoved the chair roughly back into the seat, grabbing for the crutches in the same motion. "Fine. Whatever."

The win was bittersweet, and Dean saw no reason to smirk or be smug as he grabbed for the crutches and prepared to pull himself up. It was astounding, the lack of balance he had on the one foot. It wasn't as though he'd never been on crutches before; two broken ankles, a gunshot wound to the calf and countless slashes deep into muscle tissue had him hobbling around for a good nine months worth of his life, at least. But this was different, and as he struggled to drag himself to a stand with a muscled pull on the metal crutches he couldn't help but let out a strangled cry of anguish. His balance was off and he swayed wildly, too afraid to hop on his single foot for fear that he might not land properly. There was something about knowing the other leg was no longer there to drop down for balance, no matter how much pain it might cause if it _was _there, that just made the task so much more difficult.

And then Sam was there, pulling him the rest of the way into the stand and shouldering his weight until the older hunter could grab onto the protruding rubber foam covered handles and slip his biceps into the forearm cuffs. The bend in the metal angled perfectly along his arms, but Dean couldn't help but feel as though the crutches themselves warned of permanence. He'd always used the standard wooden, straight, triangular shaped crutches. But when he protested the special style that seemed synonymous with musculo-skeletal diseases and degenerative, long-term illnesses, the doctor had failed to appear comforting.

"_This _is_ long term, Dean," Dr. Hurley had replied apologetically. "Normal crutches cause too much nerve damage in the armpits; you could lose feeling in your arms, lose movement. These are better."_

_And Dean had demanded to know what nerve damage had to do with long term, not really wanting to know the answer, but unable to shut off his belligerence long enough to let the line of demanded questions go. _

"_It takes several weeks just for your injury to heal long enough to be fitted for a prosthesis," the doctor had explained. "And weeks to months after that to be able to go all day with the prosthesis on comfortably. Not to mention the fact that you will never comfortably sleep with the prosthesis on. And there's the chance of future swelling, future injuries, damage to the prosthesis. There are a multitude of difficulties you risk facing. To some extent, you will always be dependent on these crutches."_

Dean wanted to scream. He wanted to hurl the crutches across the parking lot and into

theforest that lined the edge of the asphalt. He wanted to prove that the dreaded metal contraptions that screamed headlines of 'gimp' and 'cripple'and 'damaged goods' weren't needed. But dammit, there was no way he could do that, because there was no way he could simply 'walk-off' the pain as he'd grown so accustomed to while on the hunt with his drill sergeant of a father.

And so there was only one way to go about this. Reluctant resolve covered Dean's face as he clutched tighter to the handles. _One hop at a time. _Hysteria had him contemplating the fact that he'd just about encouraged himself by prompting 'one foot in front of the other.' Damn, cliches could be so cruel.

He pushed off, not failing to notice Sam hovering unpleasantly close to him as he teetered and swayed, dangerously close to falling at any minute and hating himself for fearing that Sam still might not catch him, close as he may be.

"Geez Sammy, at least my dates are considerate enough to pop a breath mint if they're gonna hang on me like this," Dean sniped, although the attempt lacked ammunition when the older man's voice cracked and wavered though the comment.

Sam attempted to laugh, digging deep to pull out a worthy reply and coming up short. "Breath mints are a novelty you don't afford me, big brother. My breath mint fund goes to pay for your M&M and coffee fetish. You're just gonna have to suck it up."

"Yeah, well, just keep your mouth shut then, little brother. Try not to breathe on me."

They had come to the room and Missouri swooped in to open the door as Dean took advantage of the pause to catch his breath. It surprised him just how much energy he was expending just getting the ten feet from the car to the motel room, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the foot of the bed was just a couple feet further away. Dean collapsed bonelessly into the firm mattress of the checker-pattern covered bed and sighed.

"You alright there?" Sam arched an eyebrow, concern radiating from his boyish features. "Can I get you anything? Something to drink? Aspirin? Some ice for your leg?"

"Sam, just stop worrying," Dean snapped, eyes remaining closed in his exhaustion. "I just want to sleep."

An awkward look passed between Sam, Missouri and Bobby. "Dean, baby, should we leave you alone to get some rest? Bobby and I have adjoining rooms one on either side of yours, we can let you rest and be just next door; maybe leave the door open a crack in case you need something?"

Throwing an arm dramatically across his forehead, Dean nodded in agreement. "That's fine," he grit out, desperate to get rid of them. The phantom pain had returned in full force, as it seemed to do at least once every day, just as he'd crossed the threshold into the room, and he wanted nothing more than to just be left alone in his agony.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Sam pushed, noticing Dean's sudden rigidity. "I can get you–"

"Sam please. Just leave. I'm fine."

Sam bit his lip, reluctantly allowing Bobby to lead him from the room as they followed Missouri into her single room. _Two word sentences. Four in a row. That's never a good thing. _

What Sam didn't know was the repetitive consistency of the phantom pains Dean had been experiencing. He didn't know there had been any other episodes after that first night, because Dean hadn't told him. It was embarrassing, how weak and vulnerable the pains made Dean feel. He hated the way they messed with his mind, trying to trick him into believing the leg was there. How the hell was he supposed to move on with his life and accept the fact that his leg was gone when the fucking phantom pains kept toying with him and making him feel otherwise. He could _feel_ the leg; searing pain covering every last inch of missing limp. He could feel his toes wiggle, feel his ankle rotate in its socket, hell, he could even tense the calf muscle. How do you explain those sensations without seeing the leg attached?

Sam couldn't know; not now, not ever. It wasn't just the fact that Dean had cried like a baby into his little brother's arms the first time he experienced the pains, although that was something to consider. And it wasn't the fact that he feared Sam's pity and his guilt, although that did bother him, too. No, Sam could never know because he couldn't explain it, and he couldn't fix it. He'd seen Sam's eyes that first night, thought the same thing his brother had as the doctor explained the medical normalcy to such an eerily unnatural symptom. Sam had wanted to 'kill' it, had wanted to find something about the symptoms that he could hunt and salt and burn. Dean couldn't take the disappointment in his brother's eyes every time the younger Winchester would have to watch him writhing in pain, knowing there was nothing he could do about it.

No sooner had the other three left than Dean allowed his face to contort into its own reflection of the pain he felt searing up and down his missing limb, curling himself into a ball and kneading desperately at his stump.

"Stop. Please, God, stop," he groaned, chancing an anxious glance at the cracked door to make sure no one was listening. Reassured, he squeezed his eyes tight and bit down hard on his bottom lip, hoping the move would drag the pain out of his leg and up into his lip. That pain he could deal with; it was real, at least. Explainable.

For several minutes Dean lay in bed, quietly massaging the throbbing stump to no avail as he sent a silent plea to whomever might be listening up there to just make the pain stop. _God dammit, isn't losing the damn thing enough for you? You've gotta hammer it home? Christ, I get it already. Let me be!_ And then he couldn't take it any longer as stubborn determination set in.

_Pain killers. I need pain killers. Where the hell did Sam put that bag? _Dean's eyes roamed the room, scanning desperately for the plastic zip lock he knew Sam or Bobby or someone had toted into the room. He finally saw it, taunting him from across the room on top of the TV, and for a minute Dean contemplated calling out for someone to get the blessed salvation for him. But that would require admitting he needed help, and maybe would lead to admitting he was experiencing those damn pains, and that just wasn't going to happen.

_You can do this_. Dean encouraged himself stubbornly as he reached for the crutches, dragging them onto the bed and inching them and himself to the edge nearest the TV. He judged the distance to be a little over five feet away, just far enough away to be out of arms reach if he stretched. He would have to get up, there was no way around it.

Dean took a deep breath and held it for several seconds before letting it out in a slow, controlled stream. He looked back to the door again, always worried that Sam would come in to check on him, squelching his plan. His hands shook uncontrollably, and Dean spent another precious moment with them stuffed beneath his thighs in an attempt the settle the quivering. It didn't work, but there was just no more time to waste. Dean's leg was absolutely killing him, the sharp stinging pains beginning to migrate up and into his gut. It was now or never.

With a final sigh, he planted the metal poles on the floor and hoisted himself up, once again swaying just a bit before he felt steady. Dean stood still seconds longer, ensuring he wouldn't go down the minute he started out, and then inched the crutches forward hesitantly, fearfully. _You can do this, Dean. Don't be such a God damn wimp. You're a Winchester, dammit. There's nothing you can't do. _His hands kneaded the foam on the handles in nervous agitation as he prepared himself to swing forward the few inches required to be flush with the poles again, knowing that he only had one chance to get it right. Otherwise, he would be on the floor, and Sam would be in there anyway, and he would be in so much trouble.

Inch by inch, shuffle by shuffle, Dean made his way across the room in choppy motion, a far cry from the fluid, confident hunter he had once been. But awkward as the movement may be, there was no mistaking one simple fact. There was success. Dean was successfully managing to get himself across the room without Sam's help.

He didn't dare celebrate until he was back, safely flopped on the bed, but a small hint of a smile encroached on Dean's determined scowl as he clutched the plastic of the bag against the handle and began the tedious task of returning to his safety net.

Finally sitting again on the edge of the bed, relief flooded Dean's every fiber, and for a second he forgot the whole reason for the tedious trek across the room as he relished in his victory. He hadn't fallen. Hadn't run into anything. He had done it.

Dean dry swallowed two of the pain pills Dr. Hurley had prescribed and pulled himself back onto the bed, not exactly beaming, but certainly not wallowing in the deep ocean of self-pity he'd been submerged in for weeks. _Maybe just a large lake. _Now that the trek was over he kind of wished Sam had been there to witness it. It would have been nice to have the cheering section. And Dean had to admit he would have enjoyed proving to his well meaning, but over-bearing brother that he wasn't entirely incompetent. This would never be okay, not entirely, but at least he had proven that he wouldn't always be dependent on little brother for everything. _One small step for Dean..._


	12. Chapter 12

**_Well, here we are again. You guys are awesome as usual, and as payment for you're awesomeness I'm posting another chapter. Pay a girl back with those wonderful reviews! Thanks bunches. _**

"I don't think I can leave him tomorrow." The first words out of Sam's mouth as he followed Missouri and Bobby into the psychic's motel room spoke of fear and confusion as he sank, deflated, into the old armchair crammed into the corner.

Bobby cocked his head, a mixture of understanding and concern filling his face as he crammed his hands into his pockets and sat on the bed across from the youngest Winchester.

"I've been over it in my head a million times," Sam continued. "And there's just no logical excuse I can come up with that will come even close to explaining our absence."

Missouri sat on the bed beside Bobby, hands folded in her lap as she nodded in hesitant agreement. "Maybe you could try telling him the truth?" she suggested weakly, knowing the answer before the words had even left her mouth.

Sam snorted. "Maybe I could just put the gun to his head and pull the trigger myself."

The woman shrugged, somehow not in the mood to scold the young man for his inappropriate response.

"No. There's no way we can tell Dean what we're doing. The best case scenario is that he forbids me to go and people keep dying. But with his emotions running rampant the way they are, there's no telling what the worst case would be. He just can't know what he's missing out on."

They heard a creak from the other room and all three went silent, fearing that somehow Dean had figured out a way to listen in on their conversation. When all went silent again, three breaths were let out simultaneously.

"So what do you want to do then, Sam?" Bobby leaned in closer, lowering his voice more. "I don't sense that you want to forget about this hunt. I hate to say it, boy, but you just can't have it both ways."

Sam shrugged despondently. "We've got to go. I just don't have a single clue how."

And Missouri had smiled, evil, wickedly satisfied. "You just leave it to me, boys," she smirked. "I'll keep him occupied. Just make sure you two are out of the area before Dean wakes up tomorrow and I will keep the questions at bay.

Missouri Mosely had a plan.

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So Sam and Bobby were up and out of the room by 4:00am the next morning with Dean snoring softly in his bed. Missouri's door was left wide open and she could hear every sound coming from the next room. Sam had hesitated as he approached the car, hand lingering on the door handle just a touch longer than normal as he looked back to the motel. _Am I doing the right thing?_

"Come on, boy, we've gotta get a move on." Bobby's gentle but gruff voice broke him from his trance and he didn't hesitate any longer, opening the door and climbing into the beat up truck.

A week's worth of research had still left them with gaping holes in their story and a theory on how to stop the spirit that lacked any conclusive evidence. Five days earlier, in a short lived epiphany, Sam had gone behind the motel and salted and burned the leather pouch. There was a bone in it, after all, and even though he knew there would be more out there somewhere, he had hoped it was the only bone left. But then two days later some hikers came upon three more mauled bodies that had most definitely been dead only a few hours, and Sam knew the burn had been unsuccessful.

So they had gone back to square one, deliberating and analyzing, throwing out idea after idea until finally Sam had stumbled across a site on the internet that talked about spiritual curses and all that Shaman mumbo jumbo and he discovered that there would have been four pouches, each with its own mixture of herbs and dusts and each holding one solitary bone. It would have taken four to create the curse, four to amplify the powers of the spirit; and it would take destroying all four to get rid of it. And the only thing Sam could determine about finding the other three was that they would have been in a perfect square when they were first placed and at least one would have been placed over sacred ground. But how great the distance they were apart, how deep the remaining three were buried, how much they had been moved from their original position; there were far too many unanswered questions that they just wouldn't be able to figure out until they were out there.

The plan was to be in and out before darkness fell, regardless of how successful Sam and Bobby were in their search. If need be, they would return another day, but the risk was far too great to stay out at night. And Dean would never forgive them if either one got hurt. That was why they had set out before the sun even rose in the sky. If the two hunters could set out with dawn just on the horizon they could make the most of the day.

Bobby pulled up at the rangers station just before five am. He and Sam both got out to register, ignoring the stares the ranger gave them. The man recognized the two hunters, knew the taller of the two had been pulled out of the woods not three weeks ago, bleeding profusely, unconscious, near death. The older one had been in and out of his station more times in the same time period than he'd care to count, most of those times frantically panicking about the mauling's, the deaths, that had been plaguing his crop of woods. And yet here they both were, calmly signing up for a day permit as though it were the most normal thing in the world to knowingly walk into a death trap.

The hunters walked fast once they met the mouth of the trail, each carrying their selection of weapons, some water, and enough food to supplement them for the day. In their haste to make the most of the day Sam and Dean's record of four hours to the original site was fast beaten with a record breaking three hours and eleven minutes. But that's when the whole world slowed down; at least for Sam.

Focusing on the challenges of the search and the hunt had occupied Sam's mind throughout the initial hike. He'd spent the time running over and over and over the problematic possibilities, questioning what could go wrong and how he would prevent them. One could only guess that Bobby had been doing the same thing, because neither one had been very chatty on their hastened trek. But then the clearing had come into view, and everything Sam had been thinking on and considering disappeared from his mind and the only image flashing in front of his weary eyes was that of the past.

_Blood. So much blood. And Dean's leg, barely attached to the rest of his body. His brother writhing and screaming in such un-Dean-like agony Sam had nearly lost his mind right then and there. _He hadn't seen the gory sight in the daylight, and yet standing on the same grounds where the whole fucking nightmare had taken place seemed to bring all those unseen images to light.

Sam's eyes scanned the forest floor in choppy stills.

Flash. A soaked-in spray of blood in a pile of leaves off to his right and suddenly he could see Dean dragging himself along the ground to rescue Sam.

Flash. A blood stained rock directly in front of him and Sam saw himself staggering backwards as the wolf lunged for his throat and he smashed his skull against the jagged protrusion of Flint on the ground. He could envision himself lying passed out, motionless, on the cold ground and the vividness of the image was unnerving.

Flash. A dark square of cleared brush where the tent had been and Sam watched Dean's unflinching determination to drag Sam's unyielding body back to safety, inch by agonizing inch.

There was just too much to see, too much to remember, too many blanks to fill in and Sam sank to his knees. He caught himself with his hands, palms flat on the ground, and recoiled when he felt the dry sliminess under his right thumb. Pulling that hand up he found another bloody clump of matter and was soon dry heaving off to the side as he realized it was a chunk of muscle from his brother's mangled leg. It must have pulled free when Dean had been dragging himself along the ground. _God Dammit!_

Bobby was in no greater shape visually. What Sam had needed to fill in after three weeks worth of wind and rain and natural elements had distorted the evidence, Bobby had witnessed directly the blood and gore and carnage that had resulted from that fateful night. He'd seen the blood splattered campsite in all it's crimson glory. He had pulled Dean and Sam's pale, lifeless bodies from the tent and had spent precious minutes pacing nervously like a caged animal as the trained medics assessed John's boys and loaded them onto backboards, no doubt in his mind that Winchester would come back from the dead and haunt his ass if he'd arrived too late.

But Sam needed him more, and there was no time to dwell on the vividly painted picture that streamed through his mind as he placed a shaking hand on the youngest Winchester's slumped shoulder.

"You okay, boy?"

Sam sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand as he nodded. "Yeah. Just needed a moment. Sorry about that."

"No problem, Sam. We just need to get moving. Got a lot of ground to cover in a very short time span." Bobby sounded sincerely apologetic, but his voice held firm. _There was no time to be weak._

Climbing slowly back to his feet, Sam took one final look around the campsite and composed himself. "We found the first pouch along that trail," he announced, pointing across the campsite to one of two trails that branched off from it. His voice shook, and Bobby wasn't so certain the young man wasn't crying. "I guess we should start there; at least we can get our bearings straight."

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean awoke just before nine, groggily squinting his eyes as he tried to focus on the room. It seemed quiet; too quiet for his liking, and it took him very little time to realize the silence was attributed to the lack of any other presence in the room.

"Sam? Sammy?" he called out, hating the desperation that seeped into his wavering voice.

Within seconds, Missouri rushed through their adjoining door to his bedside. "Dean, honey, you're awake!"

"Where's Sam?" Dean demanded.

"Honey, he's not here right now," Missouri replied, sitting beside her young charge on the bed. "I sent your brother and Bobby away for the day." The lie flowed out of her mouth like water through a sieve; smooth and fast.

"You did what?" He cried out, sitting up faster than his weakened body should have and sinking back against the pillows almost immediately. His eyes closed as he tried to quell the nausea that began to overpower his mind and body. He asked it again, quieter this time, weaker. "You sent him away?"

The plump woman smiled tenderly and set a hand on Dean's good leg. "I thought you and I might spend the day together. Thought we could talk."

Dean snorted, flashing the first smile Missouri had seen from him in a long time, and she cringed because it was wicked and sarcastic and not at all happy. "Sorry, Missouri. I'm just not in the sharing, caring kinda mood. So if you could just please call Sam–"

"Dean Winchester, I've known you since you were just a little pip squeak in overalls and I've never known you to be in a sharing, caring kind of mood. Heck, if I waited for you to be in that kind of mood I'd long outlive my life expectancy. I didn't ask you if you _wanted_ to talk. You and I _will _talk, even if I have to beat it out of you, boy."

"Missouri, please, I just want to be alone."

"I'm not taking no for an answer, young man. Now come on. Go get dressed; take a shower if you want. You and I are going out for breakfast." She stood, grabbing the crutches from their place propped against the bedside table and handed them to Dean with an air of finality.

But Dean wasn't done. He swatted at the hated contraptions, knocking one of them from Missouri's loose grip, but she maintained her hold on the other and thrust it out to him again, face waxed firm and unyielding.

"I just want to be left alone!" Dean raged, once again swinging out as he tried to knock the other crutch from Missouri's grasp as well.

She held tight, to both the crutch and to her convictions. Her tone remained calm and steady, betraying none of the anxiety the woman was feeling. "Dean, honey, you know I can't do that. I'm worried about you; we all are. And whether you like it or not, you've got some heavy emotions weighing you down and you need to figure out some way to get them out. Now either you're going to talk to me or you're going to choose someone else to talk to. That's your choice."

"Talking isn't going to make me feel any better."

Missouri shrugged. "It won't make you feel worse, either. Give it a try."

Crossing his arms tightly against his chest, Dean sunk further down on the bed and tried to turn away from the demanding woman. "You just wouldn't understand. No one can."

"But I can try," Missouri insisted softly. "You can' t do this on your own, Dean. I know you want to. I know that every fiber of Winchester gene in you says to suck it up and move on with your life, and I also know that doing so is next to impossible."

She paused, the silence long and hard and drawn out, waiting patiently for him to say something. But when more than a minute went by filled only with the sounds of heavy breathing, the air thick with tension, she decided to speak again.

"You're terrified." Her voice came out in a hushed whisper, and it was gentle and wise, and as much as Dean didn't want to, he reacted. He flinched, shoulders taut, hands reaching out to clench the bedspread. He could feel the woman staring daggers into the top of his head, daring him to tell her she was wrong. But he refused to look up; refused to meet her eyes.

"You think your life is over," she continued. "That there is nothing left in this world for you. You have no clue what you're going to do without the hunt; but you don't know how you _can_ hunt either. And you're scared to death that someday the demon is going to come looking for your brother and you will be helpless to stop it. ...am I coming close?"

Dean quivered, nerves afire with rage when he realized that Missouri had hit every nail dead center on the head. He finally looked up, raising his head slowly, hatred and betrayal filling his eyes. "How dare you... How dare you get into my head," he snarled. "Those are my private thoughts. MINE! They're not for you to hear, or Sam, or Bobby, or some shrink, or anyone else. How could you!"

Missouri recoiled, drawing her hand to her heart as she pursed her lips in contemplative nervousness. Guilt overwhelmed her as she remembered the few seconds of mind invasion she'd subjected him to the previous day. But this conversation, these realized thoughts, hadn't stemmed from that intrusion. She hadn't said anything that he had thought yesterday, although she supposed they were all one and the same in the long run.

"Dean I...I..." What was she to say. She couldn't tell him she hadn't read his mind, because technically she had. But not this time; not for those thoughts. The boy was so transparent. Even when he wore a mask of stoicism, flat out refusing entry to his innermost thoughts, the boy still wore his heart on his sleeve and anyone who knew him well knew what he was thinking. "I wish that I would have had to read your thoughts to know your pain," she finally said, deciding that it neither admitted fault nor denied it.

He stared at her, harsh and unyielding, for several minutes. She met his gaze, willing to hold on for as long as he needed her to and in her steadfast gaze was compassion and safety. _Talk to me, Dean. Let me help you. Don't push me away. _

And then Dean seemed to break, his entire body beginning to shake as his chest heaved in and out. He collapsed against the pillows, no longer able to maintain the stone wall he'd spent so many years building around himself, and his emotions finally poured out of him as though a damn to the ocean had just broken.

xxxxxxxxxx

Finding the spot where the original pouch had been found was easy; the rest proved nearly impossible. Sam pulled out the map of the park and he and Bobby spent several minutes staring at the blues and greens splattered all over that indicated water and land. The night before, Sam had plotted out the locations of all the attacks, and came up with a very rough estimate of the area the spirit could possess. From that, the best he and Bobby could assume was the approximate direction they should take off to find the other pouches. Each took their position, branching off in a 90 degree angle from each other, hoping they were at least going in the right direction.

Sam felt as though he'd been walking forever, his foot brushing arcs in the dirt, splaying branches in low trees and separating bushes in search of the prize. The further out he walked the wider his arcs became as he fought a very rational fear that he was just inches from missing the spiritual pouch. And then there was the nagging consideration that the others were well below the surface and that they might never find them. Then what?

But he had to push on; his own presence of mind depended on him knowing that he had tried absolutely everything in his power to get rid of this newest perception of evil.

"-am. You fin- any-ing yet?" Bobby's voice came through broken in the static of the walkie-talkie's they each held.

He pushed the button on the side. "No. You?"

"No- ing -et. I'm at... sma- -tream. I- goi- to -ross."

_A stream. _Sam grabbed for the map, opening it quickly and scanning for the closest stream to Bobby's location. The hunter had walked close to two miles and that gave Sam an indication of his own lengthy hike. _Two miles and nothing. Dammit. _

"Alright, well just keep me posted." Sam looked down at his watch and cringed. Almost two o'clock and they were no better off than when they had started this wild goose chase. They had less than four hours to reap success before they absolutely had to get out of the woods. Sam took a deep breath, renewing his determination that they _had_ to find these pouches. It was the only option.

xxxxxxxxxx

More than an hour passed as Dean shed silent tears into Missouri's comforting, motherly embrace. Together, they leaned against the pillows, the older woman sitting upright as she stroked the young hunter's hair. He leaned against the maternal woman, head in her lap, arms wrapped tightly around her waist as he finally let himself go. Whether he realized just how long he'd lain there, entwined with the woman as he sobbed like a baby, Missouri didn't know. But she willingly allowed him whatever time he needed, graciously remaining silent minus the odd '_shhh, baby, everything's going to be ok. Let it out...just let it out.' _everynow and then.

When he finally collected himself he pushed up with red, bloodshot eyes and a tear streaked face. He drew a hand across his face to dry the moisture as he glanced over at Missouri, noticeably thrown and discombobulated. "God, Missouri, I'm sorry. I just...I don't know what came over me."

"Shhh, child. You have nothing to apologize for, Dean. It's a natural response–"

"Not for me, it's not," Dean interrupted, suddenly reverting back to his angry stubbornness. "I just– I can't– This didn't happen. Please, Missouri, Sam can't know–"

Missouri shook her head somberly. "He doesn't have to know," she assured the distraught hunter, gently patting his shoulder as she pulled herself from the bed. "This will be our secret, Dean. I promise."

He looked at her with wide eyes, uncertainty over whether or not he could trust her still teetering on an edge. The fact that she had invaded his mind was still a prevalent thought in his mind despite his hour long sob fest in her arms. He wanted so much to trust her; needed to know that he hadn't just bared his soul to a woman who might then turn around and tell his little brother. Because he feared what Sam would do, what Sam would think, if he found out what had just happened.

A part of Dean knew that Sam would be angry, jealous, that he had dared to reveal to Missouri what he was loathe to reveal to his own little brother. And Dean couldn't blame him, because it would have been a rational reaction; not for an everyday civilian, but for a Winchester. Because had the tables been turned Dean would have been furious with Sam for talking to someone else, crying to someone else. So Sam couldn't know.

After studying Missouri intently for the better part of a minute Dean decided he could trust the woman and he sat up a little straighter. And Missouri seemed to know when it was time to move on.

"You must be hungry, baby," she cooed, leaning over to retrieve the haphazardly strewn crutches and attempting, once again, to offer them to Dean. "Why don't you get yourself cleaned up and then we can go get something to eat."

Finally, Dean accepted the crutches, grasping them tightly in his hands before hesitating. "I– I'm not really...ready to go out yet," he said quietly, almost pleadingly. "Can we just...order something in?"

Missouri heaved a big sigh as she contemplated her answer. "Dean, you know you're going to have to get out there some time."

"I know, Missouri. Just not today...please."

"You can't put this off forever, Dean. It's just going to get harder the longer you wait."

"I'm just not ready yet," Dean insisted, gripping tighter on the handles of the crutches, preparing himself for the daunting task of dragging himself into a stand. But he waited, unprepared to put up a fight with the stubborn woman as he struggled to balance himself.

Missouri sighed, taking in the sight of the imploring young man in front of her as she realized there was no way she could deny the man now. He'd been through too much; even just that morning. There was plenty of time to encourage him later. She finally gave in, although her reluctance shone through. "I'll make you a deal, baby. You go get yourself a shower; clean yourself up, get yourself dressed. And if you do that, I won't force you to go out today. How's that sound."

Dean heaved a noticeable sigh and even forced a weak smile onto his face in gratitude. "It sounds like a fair deal."

Bracing himself, Dean pulled up on the crutches, locking his forearms into the metal cuffs. He made sure he was balanced before he took off, paying no attention to the fact that Missouri followed dangerously close as he made his way across the room to the bathroom. But when he made it safely to the door he paused and glanced back at the woman.

"I've got it from here, Missouri. Thanks."

She hesitated, eying him up and down as though he might break just from standing there. "Are you sure?"

Dean nodded, portraying more confidence than he felt. "Positive."

Missouri nodded in apprehension. "Alright. Let me just get you a change of clothes."

She returned with a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt and laid them on the closed toilet lid before backing out of the bathroom and leaving Dean alone behind the closed door. He breathed a sigh of relief that he was finally alone, but the relief soon returned as he realized the difficulties that still lay ahead. The fact that Sam had respected him enough to not get a handicapped room had not gone unnoticed and he'd said a silent thank you when he had first arrived. But as he looked in at the slippery looking tub, noticed the lack of hand holds, realized the innumerable possibilities for slipping and injuries, Dean felt his throat tighten.

He sank down onto the edge of the tub, slowly removing his clothes as he desperately tried to calm his frayed nerves, once again berating himself for his blatant inability to do anything. He loathed this constant feeling of helplessness, despised feeling so incessantly dependant on others, and he absolutely detested these girly feelings of fear and desperation and pain that seemed to never let up. He couldn't call for help; not from Missouri. It had been hard enough getting help from Sam, and pure torture getting help from the nurses and aides in the hospital, and he'd be damned if he called Missouri into the room to provide him balance. With her arthritic knees the woman could barely balance herself sometimes, and it would be just plain humiliating to have her holding him up in the shower.

Why he didn't just run a bath could only be explained by the same illogical fact that 'Winchester's simply didn't take bath's, because bath's were for girls.' And the only times Dean could remember being submerged in a bath in his adult life were times where he was barely conscious and only partially alive. So instead, he stayed on the edge of the tub, turning the shower on so Missouri wouldn't know the difference. Spinning around, Dean turned so he faced the inside of the shower and grabbed for a washcloth and unwrapped the bar of soap and proceeded to the best job he could from the edge of the tub.

It wasn't the best solution, and he found that quite a bit of water managed to make it to the floor of the bathroom before he was done, but in the end Dean was clean, and that was truly all that mattered.

xxxxxxxxxx

The rest of the day went by relatively uneventfully. Missouri made no more attempts to get Dean to open up, feeling as though she had made enough progress for one day, although she did insist wholeheartedly that he eat every meal she placed in front of him. And because, just for today, every meal was hamburgers and fries and some of the fattiest southern cooking you could find in a northern restaurant, Dean ate it all hungrily and willingly.

He spent the majority of his day in bed, flipping through the channels on the surprisingly clear television screen in a zombie like trance and finally settled into a 'The Godfather' movie marathon in the early evening as he found himself wondering for the hundredth time just how long Missouri had sent Sam and Bobby away for.

And when he finally thought he might just go stir crazy sitting around waiting for the two men to return, he heard the loud slamming of a car door just outside their room. Dean breathed a sigh of relief, anxiously waiting for Sam to burst through the door so he could yell at the kid for listening to Missouri's order and leaving him alone all day long.

But he was unprepared for the bloodied mess that confronted him as the door slammed open and Bobby and Sam staggered into the room.


	13. Chapter 13

**_Yeah, yeah, I know...evil me for leaving the last chapter in an evil cliff hanger. Sorry; just gotta keep you guys on your toes. I still think everyone of you is awesome, and whether you are a reviewer or just a lurker I really appreciate you giving this humble author a read. Thanks a bunch - stop in a drop me a line if you have time. Enjoy..._**

**_Still don't own 'em, but if I did..._**

"Sammy!" Dean bolted up in bed, suddenly wide awake at the sight that confronted him. Sam hung limply from Bobby's arms, his eyelids at half-mast and his face desperately pale. Fierce shivers wracked his entire body and his legs barely moved as Bobby dragged him forward the remaining few feet to Dean's bed. The older Winchester scooted back to make room for his injured brother, grabbing the kid under his armpits and pulling him the rest of the way onto the bed. He vaguely heard Bobby's anguished cry for Missouri as he took in the image of Sam's crimson doused shirt and then he heard his own angry voice break into the tension of the room.

"What the hell happened to him?" Dean demanded, hovering over Sam's trembling form as he frantically searched for a wound and finally made contact with the deep gouge through the younger man's stomach.

"It's okay, Dean." Sam's eyes rolled lazily around in their sockets until they found purchase on his brother's frantic face. He made a valiant effort to focus, but he'd lost too much blood already and he failed miserably, his gaze losing contact as soon as it had been found.

For the first time in weeks Dean completely forgot about his own injury as he hovered over Sam and pressed down hard into the seeping wound with the edge of the comforter. Sam cried out weakly, but Dean barely heard him through the chaos and he continued to demand answers from Bobby.

"Why is he hurt? What did this to him? What the hell were you two doing all day long?"

Bobby refused to answer, instead crossing the room to where the first aid kit still lay open from when Missouri had changed Dean's bandages earlier in the night, and grabbed the supplies they would be needing. "Not now, Dean. First let's deal with your brother. Then I'll answer

your questions."

It was all he could do to keep his emotional demands at bay, but Dean recognized the diplomacy in the older man's order and managed to calm down. He forced himself to focus completely on Sam, pulling the young man into his lap as Bobby and Missouri set about cleaning and stitching the wound. Sam passed out from the pain within minutes of his arrival in the room and Dean was helpless to do anything but rock his unconscious brother and continually dab his sweating forehead with a cool cloth.

More than an hour passed before they were done with Sam, and then he was transferred to the other bed. Dean followed, cradling his baby brother as he continued to sleep, watching Missouri strip the first bed of the bloody linens. He stared in dazed silence for several minutes after that, absently stroking Sam's sweat soaked hair as his mind struggled to process the last hours events.

The bed was stripped, the bloody bedding and towels were stuffed into a large garbage bag and Missouri was finally tending to a superficial cut on the bicep of Bobby's right arm before Dean finally opened his mouth to speak. He'd been concentrating hard on the events and Missouri's reaction to them, and it had finally occurred to Dean that whatever the hell had just happened was not altogether unexpected. And now he was pissed.

"I'm going to ask you one more time, and this time I expect a God damn answer," Dean growled, locking his steely gaze on Bobby. "What the hell happened to my brother."

Bobby sighed, dropping his head in his open hand in defeat. The first words he spoke were to the ground and it wasn't until Dean screamed at him to 'look at me dammit," that Bobby finally met the younger man's gaze.

"Turns out you boys didn't exactly kill that spirit in the Algonquin woods. Sam and I went back to try and take care of it."

Dean exploded. "You did what!"

Moisture clouded the older man's eyes as he looked to Dean with the sincerest of apology. "We really thought we knew how to take care of it this time."

"By doing what," Dean snapped. "Offering yourselves up as sacrifices?"

"We were supposed to be out of the woods before the sun went down," Bobby insisted. The role reversal was blatantly obvious as Bobby's meek voice filled the room, feeling like a child answering to his father. "It was more of a search than a hunt."

"Coulda fooled me. Sam, bleeding all over my bed, pretty much tells a different story."

"We found two of them," Bobby continued. "And Sam really wanted to keep looking for the last one, so we just kept adding time. Five minutes here, ten there, and the next thing we–"

"Hold on just a minute," Dean interrupted, and the loud tone of his voice made Sam flinch in his unconsciousness. "Found two of what? What the hell are you talking about?"

It was then that Bobby realized Dean knew even less about the hunt than the old hunter had assumed. Putting two and two together timewise, he finally realized that Sam must have found the first pouch about the same time Dean had been hurt, and he knew nothing about it. For the next several minutes Bobby explained about the four pouches, and the Algonquin tribe, and the summoned spirit that had lain dormant for centuries before somehow being disturbed, rising once again to avenge the tribal deaths. He explained their theory on the constantly changing forms, and how he and Sam had decided that the spirit couldn't return to a form that had been destroyed, but had several more to choose from. And the longer Bobby spoke the angrier Dean seemed to become until he was literally stewing in his own juices.

"Why didn't anyone tell me about this?" Dean screamed, letting go of his hold on Sam and sitting up in the bed to appear more threatening. "I can't believe you all went behind my back. You lied to me!"

Bobby flinched, and Missouri seemed to shrink back into her chair. "We thought it would be for the better if we didn't bring you in on this one, Dean," Bobby admitted. "There wasn't anything you could have dong, and you would have just worried–"

"You should have told me! Sam got hurt because you didn't tell me!"

"What would you have done, Dean?" Missouri's soft voice interrupted the tirade for the first time, and despite her anxiety over the situation she seemed to have a firm grasp on controlling the sound that came out.

"I would have protected my brother!"

"How?" the woman challenged, continuing to keep her tone even.

"I don't know!" Dean screamed, slamming his fist into the bed as he realized what the woman was implying. He hated her for that; and hated himself for its truth. "I would have figured something out. This never should have happened!" His arm waved wildly across Sam's prone form.

"Dean, people were continuing to die out there. There have been seven more deaths just in the time that you were in the hospital. Sam and I had to do something about it."

"You still should have _told_ me!" he shrieked back at Bobby, his face reddening in his rage.

Bobby continued to keep his voice down as he searched for the most tactful way to silence the hunter. "You were in no shape mentally to be hearing about a hunt Sam and I had planned," Bobby began, and then held his breath to wait and find out what Dean's reaction would be. He could still see the anger and hatred filling the young man's being, but to his credit Dean stayed quiet.

"You've been all over the board with your emotions these past few weeks...and that's

perfectly acceptable, considering," the hunter was quick to add. "But we just didn't think it was wise for you to be worrying about this too. Sam and I figured we had it covered. Besides, Dean," Bobby sighed, long and drawn out as though he were hesitant to say the next part. "You're in no condition to be hunting right now; or even to be thinking about hunting right now."

There was no denying that the words stung, true as they might have been, and Dean had to swallow down a gigantic lump in his throat before he could talk again. "Way to kick a man when he's down." He finally whispered forlornly. The fight had left him as quickly as it had come and now he slumped back against the pillows in defeat.

"This is why we didn't want to tell you." All three looked over to where Sam had finally woken up enough to speak in a forced whisper, and he now struggled to pull his weak body up into a sit. When it appeared that Dean was too downtrodden to attempt to assist his little brother, Bobby crossed the room and helped Sam sit up and lean against the pillows beside Dean. His lids still drooped, dangerously close to shutting completely again, but for the time being Sam was in the conversation.

"Sam?" It was all Dean could muster, asking both '_are you okay?' _and _'what the hell do you mean by that?'_ all in the same single word.

Sam nodded in assurance of his health, and then grabbed Dean's gaze as much as his tired body would allow. "We knew you would be upset if you knew what we were planning. And I knew you would put my welfare above the lives of those innocent people."

"You're damn straight I would."

"But if you were well, I'm sure you wouldn't have given a second thought as to whether or not we should go finish the job."

"Of course not. But it's different."

"That's just it," Sam expressed, wincing as the force in his response elicited a sharp pain in his side and he had to pause to take several breaths, wrapping his arm around the wound, before he was able to continue. "It's not different. You're implying that Bobby, who has been hunting a hell of a lot longer than you have, is less capable than you are at succeeding in a hunt. But you don't know that the exact same thing might not have happened tonight if it had been you and me out there. Hell, Dean, look what happened the last time we were out there!"

_I don't want to think about it!_ "You still should have told me," Dean pouted. It seemed to be the only response he could come up with to just about everything his brother and friends could throw at him. Because damn if they weren't right. He hated that he read like an open book, and really hated that everything they said seemed accurate. But it just wasn't fair! He should have been on that hunt tonight! He should have been there to back his brother up, and if it weren't for his damn leg..._Fuck._

"Dean," Sam's voice softened when he realized just how painful it must be for Dean to know he was physically incapable of doing the only thing he knew how to do. His hand reached out, gently resting on Dean's leg as the other continued to hold tight against his tortured abdomen. "Dean, this...was unavoidable. It snuck up on us from behind; and we thought we were far enough away from its territory to be safe. And I wish to god I could have been able to save you from the torture of thinking you weren't there to protect me, but I'm going to be fine. The antler went in off to the side. It missed all the vital organs and I already feel better. I promise, you have nothing to worry about."

"Is it gone now?" Dean asked, rationality winning out over despondency, if only for the time being.

Sam immediately averted his eyes, catching a glance of Bobby's tortured image before he quickly mumbled his reply. "Isillowethere," he admitted, joining his words so that Dean couldn't really understand what he'd said.

"What?"

A long sigh. "I said it's still out there," the younger man repeated, speaking slower this time because he knew Dean would be pissed if he had to make Sam repeat it a third time. "We still have to find and destroy one more pouch before it's gone. And it doesn't seem to be losing any power just because we've destroyed three."

"Well shit, Sam, now what are you going to do?"

He shrugged, wincing again and immediately regretting the move. "More research, I guess. Try and figure out where to focus our energy. There's hundreds of acres worth of land out there and the damn thing could be anywhere."

"Uh uh," Dean exclaimed, shaking his head authoritatively. "There's no way you're going back out there again. You've been out twice and gotten hurt both times. I'm not letting you go back out there to let the damn thing finish the job. Let someone else take care of it this time."

"But Dean–" Sam began to protest, and then stopped because out of the corner of his eye he could see Bobby shaking his head. _Don't push it, Sam. He's too upset to understand and you're too hurt to be putting up much of a fight. Back off._ "Okay," Sam finally relented. "We'll figure something else out."

An awkward silence filled the room for several minutes after that as each realized there was nothing left to say about the topic; or, at least nothing that wouldn't lead to yet another argument. In the end it wasn't what was said, but what was done that lead to more activity as Sam flinched yet again, lifting his arm from his stomach and revealing the fresh blood seeping through his t-shirt.

"Damn, Sammy, you're bleeding again," Dean observed. His eyes searched and fell on the first aid kit, repacked and sitting on the bathroom counter again. His first instinct was to jump up and grab the kit, and he made it as far as the edge of the bed before the harsh reality smacked him in the head again. No more would he make a quick sprint across the room to grab something. There was no 'quick' anything anymore. Now everything took time, and patience and concentration; all traits that Dean lacked.

Noticing Dean's intent, Bobby immediately stood and began crossing the room to where the first aid kit sat. His hand was on it before Dean stopped him.

"No, Bobby. I've got it," Dean announced sharply, already grabbing for the crutches that had once again fallen onto the floor.

"Dean, it's fine. I'm already here."

Dean shook his head firmly and pursed his lips. "I said I've got it," he insisted. He wrestled with the dreaded poles, working faster than he should in his haste to prove himself. It took three tries before Dean was up and steady enough to move forward. He hadn't missed Sam's desperate grab for him as he wavered the first two tries, and he absolutely despised the fact that his injured little brother, who was once again bleeding through his shirt and could barely sit up by himself, still felt that he was in better shape than his amputee of a brother. It was all Dean could do to ignore the gesture, and instead made it a personal mission to prove his brother and Bobby wrong. "I don't need your help; I can do it on my own."

This was his chance. Sam had missed his triumph the night before, and it was time for Dean to show his over-protective kid brother that he wasn't as helpless and needy as it might seem. He could feel all eyes on him as he made his way, by himself, across the room. A part of Dean, the part that was still the _old_ Dean, felt like smirking at the knowledge that he had just proven he could do the impossible - or at least that's what he was certain _they_ must believe. But then there was new Dean; moody, broody, tormented, new Dean who really wanted nothing more than to prove his point, take care of his little brother, and then crawl under the covers and nurse his still very vulnerable emotions with a long nap. New Dean won out.

Sam was impressed; beyond impressed at Dean's accomplishment after having witnessed the man practically land flat on his stubborn ass just a day earlier while attempting the same task. His lips turned up into a smile, but that's as far as he allowed his emotions to go as he noted Dean's fixed determination. No words were spoken, because praising his brother might as well have been damning him to hell. Dean didn't do praise. Dean didn't do acknowledged accomplishments. And now, watching his brother make his way across the room to come help him, Sam accepted that the best way to encourage Dean was to keep his damn mouth shut. No praise was good praise.

Dean finished his task; returning to Sam's side and re-dressing his wounds. Bobby's stitches were still in tact, but further inspection revealed that there weren't enough, and Dean quickly popped two more onto the wound as Sam recoiled in pain.

"Sorry, Sammy. It's gotta be done."

"It's fine, Dean. Just hurts. I'll heal."

And that made Sam's guilt return in full force, right then and there. _He_ would heal. _He_ would ultimately be fine. The pain he felt would go away, and with it the wound. All that would be left was a small scar and the faint memory of yet another injury added to his tally of hundreds. But Dean didn't have that luxury, and he kicked himself mentally, angrily berating himself for being so insensitive.

It didn't help when Dean visibly flinched at Sam's announcement, drawing back and looking at the wall, looking away from everyone else as he recovered his composure. Sam saw Dean drop his hand unconsciously to the shortened leg, rubbing it in firm circles as he tried hard to hide a grimace on his turned face, and Sam didn't know if the motion was in response to his words or if it was indicative of something else. But as soon as the motion had begun, Dean stopped, turning back to Sam.

"I think we should all try to get some sleep," he announced with no inflection in his voice.

Missouri and Bobby were quick to respond, jumping from their seats and quickly escaping the awkward situation. Sam could only nod, staring hard at his brother and trying desperately to read his suddenly blank expression. Dean's mask was back up in full force.

Dean waited until it was just the two of them before he fully removed himself from Sam's bedside and made his way over to his freshly made bed. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he were lost deep in concentration trying to ensure his safety from one location to the next. Accompanying those thoughts as he slid under the covers were thoughts once again of his failure. Failure to protect Sam. Failure to get rid of the spirit the first time. Failure to be the man he once was.

xxxxxxxxxx

They stayed two more days at the motel; just long enough for Sam to recover and for Dean to become more stir crazy and moody than before. And in addition to his constant mood swings, Dean also suddenly became increasingly obstinate.

Obstinance, apparently, was another side effect of Dean's disability. But unlike all the other unfavorable side effects that had Sam cringing and holding his breath and tearing his hair out in the privacy of the bathroom, this side effect Sam would take. Because obstinate Dean liked to do exactly the opposite of what people suggested he do. And seeing how the majority of said suggestions came from an extensive list of don'ts that Dr. Hurley had sent home with them on a final check-up before releasing Dean from the hospital, and considering that Sam felt the majority of those don'ts were oppressive and hindering, the younger brother was more than willing to allow Dean to fight the rules. And Dean had plenty of time to perfect his obstinance while they waited around the motel for Sam to heal.

After having lost his balance several times in the hospital while trying to stand up and pee, Dr. Hurley had suggested Dean learn to sit while he perform that task, at least until he had learned to balance his weight differently. And for the first day or so, Dean listened to that advice. But it was demeaning and difficult, and Dean was certain he felt his manhood withering away as he squatted like a chick. So instead of following the suggestion, Dean learned that planting a palm against the wall behind the toilet gave him enough balance to remain standing, to maintain his manhood.

And then the good doctor had recommended that Dean wear sweats and shorts to minimize the amount of rub on the still healing stump. He really hadn't even gotten out of his pajamas prior to that suggestion, but the fact that it now glared at him from a bright yellow piece of paper only encouraged Dean to get out of his pajamas everyday, and began sporting a pair of rugged jeans each time. Dean Winchester didn't do sweats, and he sure as hell didn't do shorts. Then there was the shower. The first day at the motel, with Missouri, was the first and last time that Dean allowed his fears to get the better of him in the slippery death trap. Slipping in the shower posed a big risk, and taking a bath instead was listed high up on the scorned list. So instead of taking the advice, Dean took to tying a towel to the curtain rod every time he got in. He clung to it pretty heavily, but it allowed the stubborn hunter to remain standing, and that was enough for him. No sissy baths for him; no way.

Dean had managed to modify the majority of the items on the list, and Sam maintained a constant streamline of thank you's for every time Dean made some kind of improvement in his recovery just from his utter recalcitrance.

It wasn't until they were back on the road, Sam and Dean in Missouri's car and Bobby following in his tow truck with the Impala hitched securely to the back, that Sam discovered that there was a downside to Dean's constantly opposing everything on the list. Because Dr. Hurley's list of don'ts continued on the other side with a pretty extensive stream of items that could make one a recluse if done. Item one, in big bold letters: don't allow the public eye to frighten you away. And because Dean had made it a point to do absolutely everything opposite of what the list said, that meant he wouldn't get out at the rest stops, and he sure as hell wasn't about to enter any restaurants where someone could stare.

Looking back, Sam realized that Dean had had some kind of excuse every time Bobby or Missouri had suggested he come with them to go grab some takeout while they waited for Sam to recover in the motel. He hadn't left the place, hadn't even stepped out the door, since the day Sam had broken the stubborn bastard out of the hospital. Dean had brushed off the last two rest stop opportunities, but Sam could now see the man squirming uncomfortably in the front seat. And for lunch, Dean had eagerly suggested they do a drive through, and now that Sam thought about it, it was the most animation he'd heard in Dean's voice since before the accident.

Now they sat in the crowded parking lot of a Denny's halfway between Canada and Kansas with Dean stubbornly crossing his arms against his chest in a stalwart refusal to go inside. Missouri and Bobby huddled awkwardly off to the side of the car, unsure as to whether they would be helping matters or hurting them if they spoke up, as Sam crouched in the open doorway, appealing to Dean.

"They're not going to be staring at you," Sam insisted in response to Dean's mumbled fear to the contrary. The older Winchester's head hung low, staring forlornly at the object of his

despair, shooting fiery daggers at the stump he scorned more than the yellow-eyed demon itself. "Come on, Dean, they'll barely notice."

"That's easy for you to say," Dean muttered. "You don't have to live like this."

Sam winced, knowing his brother was absolutely right, and fearing he had no words to say that could make the situation any better. "You can't stay in hiding forever," Sam sighed.

"Watch me."

"Dean, come on! This isn't the end of the world. You're going to have to get used to stuff like this; it's how we live. You can't stay in the car for the rest of your life."

"I can, and I will. Please, Sam, just leave me alone."

Sam ran a hand through his long locks, wincing as the move pulled at his still tender stomach. His mind reeled. _Do I play hardball, or do I let this go?_ And the question was no longer being asked to determine what Dean _wanted_, so much as what was in Dean's best interest. How long was Sam to coddle him and give in to his every misguided whim before enough became enough. And Sam finally determined that it was time.

"Dean, if you don't come in with us, you're going hungry." Sam's throat tightened as he said it, and he barely squeaked out the words. It seemed so cruel, and yet so completely necessary.

He waited, holding his breath, for Dean to react. But if Dean did react he managed to internalize it, because the man barely moved, barely blinked, barely breathed. "Fine, Sam. If that's the way it's going to be then I guess I just won't eat."

And it killed Sam to do it, but he allowed Bobby to lead him away from Dean and into the restaurant. He ate the food that Missouri forced on him, all the while thinking about Dean starving in the front seat of Missouri's Powder Blue Ford Taurus. He debated over ordering 'just a little something' for Dean before they left, and ended up resenting Missouri and Bobby when they chose that threat to ensure Sam followed through. '_It's the right thing to do,'_ Bobby had insisted as he steered the hesitant young man back out the door. _'He may fight us in the beginning, but he'll thank you one day.'_

So Dean went hungry that night, and spent the entire day with a full bladder. He was miserable, and Sam was miserable, but in the end it would be worth it. The fight for Dean's life had begun.


	14. Chapter 14

**_OK, so I've been running around like a crazy person these last few days and I haven't had much time to devote to writing. So here are my apologies: I haven't had a chance to reply to any reviews and I haven't had time to go back and edit this chapter, but I figured posting for you guys was more important than the former issues, so here you go. Hope it's not too bad. Also, my week really isn't going to slow down anytime in the next few days, so I may not get the next chapter posted until Sunday or Monday. Bear with me, things will slow down soon. Here's one giant shout out to all you guys who were nice enough to leave those wonderful reviews. Thanks so much! And for those who just read; your presence doesn't go unnoticed. Much appreciated. And now on with the story. _**

Sam gave Dean exactly one day to settle in at Missouri's; one day to learn to drag himself step by step to the second floor of the house because that's where the bedrooms were and no way was he sleeping on a lumpy old couch. One day to figure out how to balance in the shower, because the rod in Missouri's bathroom was about as stable as a wet spaghetti noodle so he had to rig up a hold from the stem of the shower head, which was totally annoying because the water sprayed into his arm, sending it splattering in every direction including his face and his nose and his eyes, and he had to keep his head constantly turned to the side if he wanted to see anything or, for that matter, breathe.

And he had one day to learn that Sam had given up on coddling him, and that if he wanted to eat he would come to the table, or go out with the rest of them - which he'd be damned if he was about to do - and if he needed help with something he would have to ask, because Sam was done with the guessing games. One day of this nonsense reassured Dean that he would be going hungry more times than not, and there was a pretty safe bet that a lot of things would go undone or half-assed because he'd be damned if he was going to _ask_ his baby brother for help changing his bandage and pinning his pants up and all the other totally obnoxious and yet totally necessary requirements that now went along with his crippled life. Because Sam imposing himself on Dean was one thing, but Dean actually admitting he needed help was yet another. Uh uh. No fucking way.

On the second day, Sam dragged Dean out of bed just after dawn broke on the horizon. He made him eat a full breakfast, and insisted he dress in sweats despite his protests to the contrary, and they were out the door by 8am. Dean moped the entire drive, knowing full well what his baby brother had planned for him, but too stubborn to ask. When they pulled up in front of an expansive building, and Dean read the sign his suspicions were confirmed. Large block letters announced their arrival at **LAWRENCE REHABILITATION HOSPITAL**, with smaller letters underneath announcing **New Lives, New Chances**. Dean felt like gagging.

Sam had circled the car and was holding out the crutches before Dean had even released his seatbelt, and the older man rolled his eyes before opening the door. _I can't believe I'm actually doing this_, he thought miserably as he grabbed for the crutches and hoisted himself up. _I can't fucking believe this is my life now. _

"You ready?" Sam asked nervously, bouncing from foot to foot as he waited for Dean to take off.

"No." It was blunt. Harsh. Honest.

"Oh..." _Well shit, Dean, what the hell am I supposed to say to you?_

"Do I have a choice in this?"

Sam shook his head. "You need to do this, Dean."

"Fine." And Dean pressed forward, making quick but awkward progress across the parking lot. If he had to do this, he might as well do it with dignity.

But dignity went out the window the minute they crossed over the threshold of the facility and Dean found himself staring at a whole different world; one where debilitating injury reigned supreme and he was just a dime a dozen. He should have felt more comfortable with these people, all of whom were hobbling around on crutches and rolling across the floor in their wheelchairs. Maybe he _would_ have felt comfortable with them, even superior to some, until he looked around and saw the same pitying stares on their faces that he'd feared from the able-bodied world.

_Even the cripples of this god forsaken fucked up world pity me_. He just about turned around, and certainly would have if Sam's freakishly tall body hadn't been blocking the way. But Sam pushed him forward, leading him to the reception desk where a disgustingly perky aide was manning the large block of oak by herself.

"Hi there! You have an appointment?" She chirped.

Sam nodded. "I'm Sam Winchester. This is my brother Dean. I spoke with someone on the phone the other day about getting him fitted for a prosthetic leg. We're supposed to see a Dr. Jennings."

She nodded and punched a few buttons on the computer before looking back up at them. "You're right on time. Dr. Jennings will be out with you momentarily. Why don't you have a seat and we'll call you when he's ready."

Dean refused to sit because it was easier to remain standing than it was to drag himself back up, and Sam remained obediently at his brother's side as they waited for the specialist. A blond, curly haired man in his late thirties appeared soon after and made his way over to the brothers after stopping at the receptionists desk for confirmation of his patient. He greeted them warmly, shaking hands with Sam and quickly brushing off Dean's refusal to do the same, and then got down to business.

"Why don't you come with me to my office. We can talk more candidly there."

Sam matched gates with the tall doctor, keeping pace as he eagerly soaked up all the man had to say about the facility, and Dean followed several steps behind. He didn't care what the man wanted to share, didn't really give a rat's ass how esteemed the facility was, or how big the exercise arena was, and he sure as hell couldn't give a damn about how much of a success rate they had in restoring their patients to near normal lives. He just wanted to go home and curl up in bed and forget about his missing leg and the fact that it just added to a long stream of shit that had been tossed at him in this lousy excuse for a life that he'd been forced to endure for far too many years.

Dr. Jennings offered them both a seat before taking his own behind his desk, he watched in explorative curiosity as Dean slumped down into his chair, crossing his arms tightly into his chest and fixing his steely gaze on a spot just below the edge of the desk.

"So," the man began, flipping open a manilla folder and riffling through some papers as he spoke. "The hospital sent all the records they had on you, Dean. Below the knee traumatic amputation three and a half weeks ago as the result of a bear trap. From what I can see of your x-ray records it looks like the residual limb is more than adequate to fit a prosthesis. Below knee amputation is ideal for as complete a recovery as is possible. With time and practice you should even be able to walk without a limp."

"So what do we need to do to get started?" Sam questioned, leaning in on his chair, elbows braced on his knees to hold him up.

_God, Sammy, you're such a do-gooder. Just drop it already_. Dean couldn't help but roll his eyes as he shifted in his seat, uncrossing and then recrossing his arms before returning his dulled gaze to the seemingly perplexing spot on the desk.

Once again, Dr. Jennings stopped to study Dean's attitude before returning to the subject. "I like to start out my sessions by explaining what will be going on over the next few months. Then we can take a tour of our facilities, and finally I'll do a preliminary assessment of the residual limb."

Sam leaned in further, ready to absorb as much information as he could.

Dean brooded.

Sam listened as Dr. Jennings explained the initial strengthening exercises Dean would

need to focus on.

Dean pouted.

Sam took in the technical explanation of the molding process, how they would take a cast of Dean's stump to ensure the prosthesis would fit perfectly, the fact that every single prosthesis was different to fit the needs of each individual patient.

Dean moped.

Sam soaked up the description of the actual rehab process, how and when Dean would learn to walk, and the general timeline that all this would take place.

Dean sulked.

The elder hunter remained mute and silent and perfectly miserable as he listened to his little brother ask question after question about the entire process and feeling as though the younger man might be enjoying this just a little too much.

"Dean, you've been awfully quiet throughout all this," Dr. Jennings observed once he'd finished his lecture. "What do you have to add?"

Dean shrugged stubbornly and refused to speak, his eyes still locked downward and away from the sympathetic eyes of his brother and the well-meaning doctor.

"I can understand this is very hard for you, Dean." Dr. Jennings rose, circling around his desk before coming to rest on the front edge. "Trust me when I tell you that you're not the first person to go through this, and you won't be the last. But you have to _want_ to get better, you have to _want_ to work hard, before you will ever have a chance at succeeding at this therapy. I have no place in my clinic for someone who doesn't want to put one hundred percent into recovery."

"Dr. Jennings, please, this whole thing has been so hard on him," Sam interjected. "He'll put the effort in, I promise. It's just going to take a little more time to adjust. We just got back into town two days ago."

The doctor sighed and crossed his arms as he turned to look at the younger brother. "Sam, I don't mean to be rude, but I think your brother needs to learn to speak for himself. Maybe you could step outside so we can talk alone."

Sam's mouth gaped open despite his attempt not to look affronted at the doctor's suggestion. But he ultimately stood up and crossed the room to the door. His hand was on the knob when Dean finally spoke.

"He stays."

"What?" Sam and Dr. Jennings asked in unison.

Dean's words were muffled as he talked around a mouthful of dry, cottony tongue, and that mixed with the fact that he was talking only to the floor made him hard to understand. But he still got his point across. "I said my brother stays. I'll talk, but only if he stays here."

Dr. Jennings pursed his lips in thought and finally relented. "Alright. You've got a deal." And then, looking at Sam, added, "But you need to let your brother do his own talking. It's for his own good."

Sam nodded and planted himself back in the chair, wondering how well this was going to go, and knowing full well that Dean wasn't a talker, and he sure as hell wasn't a sharer. _This should be interesting. _

The doctor leaned back just a bit further against his desk as he looked pointedly at Dean and directed his first question to the sullen young man. "How have you been doing with all this, Dean? Have you been managing alright physically so far? Any problems you might have questions about?"

Dean shrugged again, and the doctor glared at him for several seconds before it struck Dean that he wasn't following through on his end of the bargain. _I'll talk, _he'd promised, _as long as Sam stays. But I didn't say I would be pleasant about it. _Inside his head, Dean could feel himself smirking, but the gesture didn't make it to his face. "How the hell do you think I've been doing? I'm missing my fucking leg. I can't walk god-dammit. And my life, my work, every fucking thing in my life that I've ever known is completely over because of one stupid misstep in the middle of the fucking woods. So you tell me how I'm doing."

"Dean..." Sam reached out a hand to his brother, settling it on his shoulder in a gesture of warning and comfort. _Chill out man, it was just a simple question. _

As the older brother went silent, Dr. Jennings took yet another minute to study his reactions, eying Dean up and down as he asked his next question. "Have you sought any psychological assistance to help get you through this trauma, Dean?"

He shook his head firmly, outraged by the question. "With all due respect, doc, I don't need some shrink messing with my head. I can work out my own problems. Always have, always will."

The doctor pulled his lips into a pinched smile as the abrupt stubbornness in Dean's words told him he would get nowhere fast on that topic. But he had to try; what kind of a doctor was he if he didn't. "Dean, I understand that you're used to doing things on your own. I can tell just by looking at you that you're not someone who is used to asking for help, and I can certainly understand that mentality. _Really, _I do. But everyone needs a little help sometimes in their life, and I would think–"

Dean cut the man off mid-sentence. "Doc, I'm only here because my do-gooder little brother here seems to think I can move on with my life if you set me up with a new leg. Now I think that's a load of crap, but if that's what Sammy wants that's what Sammy gets. So just get one thing straight, before I succumb to you manhandling me to get this blasted leg. I'm not here to have my head shrunk by some dime school psychotherapist. I'm not here for your touchy-feely seminar bullshit. And I'm sure as hell not here to become some poster child for the physically challenged. I'm here for one thing, and one thing only. So either you can shut up and stop feeding me these crap lines about talking out my feelings and help me get a new leg, or you can tell me that you can't help and my brother and I will be on our way."

Dr. Jennings went quiet, dumbfounded by Dean's severe depression and anger at the situation. He pushed himself off of his desk and paced the floor as he searched the recesses of his brain for something more he could say. Upon hearing about Dean a week ago he had immediately developed an innate desire to help the kid through the challenges he faced, and meeting him had only hammered that desire home. The information sent to him by the hospital had all but screamed disaster, hopeless case. And then he'd spoken on the phone for half an hour with Dr. Hurley, listening to what the man had to say about his troubled patient, cringing at the extensive list of problems Dean had created for the staff, but also encouraged by the sincere love his family seemed to have shown the boy. Because a loved patient only required time before they came around; and Dr. Jennings was determined to help Dean Winchester with every bit of his impending recovery.

But knowing this, he also realized he would have to tread very lightly until he'd managed to get the young patient to trust him. If that meant backing off from discussions he felt should be important, then that's what he would do; because pushing too hard would prove more detrimental than it was worth. He dropped the subject of the psychiatrist like a fifty pound sack of flour and moved on.

"Fine, Dean. But in order for me to fit you with a new leg I need to ask you some questions. And you're going to have to be completely open and honest with me."

For the next twenty minutes Dean grudgingly answered every question the doctor asked of him about the leg itself and his own physical abilities, stretching the truth on those he didn't feel comfortable admitting to. He admitted to the doctor that the scar was still tender to the touch, and that he hadn't been changing the bandages as often as he should because the sight of his unwrapped leg still repulsed him. He told him that, no, he hadn't been doing any of the strengthening exercises they had recommended at the hospital, and why the hell should he - it wasn't like the leg would be carrying any weight anymore.

When he admitted to still experiencing the phantom pain on an almost daily basis, and that on a scale of one to ten, most days it ranked somewhere around a three Sam practically fell off his chair, because this was complete news to him. And if Dean ranked it as a three then it was probably more along the lines of an eight or a nine, maybe even a solid ten, because Dean always sugar coated his pain. And that meant that Dean had been suffering through the pain all alone, hiding it from everyone, for almost two weeks now and Sam had been too blind to see it.

_Shit, Sam, what the hell kind of brother are you? How could you not notice?_ He berated himself as he sat in silence, listening to everything Dean was admitting. And he realized the anger and the pushing everyone away had played a big part in Dean's keeping this a secret and that, along with Sam's full fledged concentration on figuring out the hunt in Algonquin, had kept him completely in the dark. Coming back to the conversation, guilt fully riding on his conscience, Sam continued to listen.,

When asked, Dean told the doctor that he'd only just begun using the crutches, and no, he didn't really feel all that steady on them yet, but that he felt he was making progress. And Dean asked the doctor the same question he'd asked at the hospital - was there anyway he could trade these god-awful metal contraptions for the traditional wooden ones? But he was bet with the same answer he'd been given before, almost word for word, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if they had memorized the same text for their template answers.

And then Dr. Jennings branched off, no longer interested in Dean's injury, and now interested in Dean's abilities pre injury and his expectations post. Dean answered as honestly as he could. Yes, he'd been in great shape before the accident. Yes, hiking and running and flexibility were key for him, and he spoken up in pleading tones that his job required him to be on top of his game at all times. He couldn't risk not being able to move and twist his body. Without divulging much, he even admitted that he used self-defense on a regular basis, and if they could figure out some way that the new leg wouldn't hinder those efforts, well, that'd be great.

As each answer was wrestled from Dean's unwilling mouth, Sam could see his brother deflate just a little bit more, because every question and every answer defined the new Dean, and chipped away at the old. Sam feared, if this kept up, that very soon there would be nothing left of his brother.

When the line of questioning finally stopped, Sam breathed a sigh of relief and he watched Dean do the same. And then Dr. Jennings was up and eagerly moving again. "I'd like to show you around the facility; introduce you to some of our staff; maybe send you home with some exercises to do before your next appointment." He hesitated, looking down at Dean sternly. "You may not want to talk to anybody about what you're going through, but it's absolutely vital that you listen to what we tell you physically. These exercises we give you are important, and you could get seriously hurt if you don't follow our advice. Understand?"

Dean hesitated. _No I don't understand, dammit. I don't understand why any of this had to happen to me. I don't understand why I'm done everything right in my whole entire god-forsaken life, and this is my repayment. No fucking leg. Patronizing doctors. Ridiculous exercises. _

"Dean?" Dr. Jennings prompted again.

He looked up, despondent; could see Sam's hopeful expression from the corner of his eye and realized there was no way he could dash his poor brother's hopes, regardless of how much he wanted to say 'Fuck it' and stomp off in total despair. "Yeah," he finally agreed half-heartedly. "Yeah, I'll do it."

Sam's face brightened and Dean could tell it was all the little shit could do not to spout off a mouthful of 'thank you, Dean; you won't forget this!' He turned and glared at his younger brother, daring him to say something, daring him to be obnoxiously bubbly and ecstatic over his agreeing to try the rehab thing. Sam got the hint, and shut his mouth before it could spew something he might soon regret.

The doctor clasped his hands as approval crossed his face, taking his great victory in stride. There was so much more to accomplish before he could truly consider himself victorious. He would have to take it one step at a time.

The remainder of their visit went by in a blur. Dean followed along in sullen silence as Dr. Jennings gave the boys a thorough tour of the facility and moped through the preliminary assessment of his leg, trying not to wince too much as the doctor poked and prodded a tad too roughly at his still tender leg. He'd flinched a little when Dr. Jennings admitted apologetically that the wound was still too fresh to be fitted for a new leg, and that it might be as much as another month before it was healed enough. But then Dean drew the mask back over his face because, hell, that was just par for the course for his fucked up life. What was another month to wait for something he'd never wanted in the first place.

Sam set up another appointment to start his rehab before they left and thanked Dr. Jennings profusely for all his help. And as he and Dean made their way back to the parking lot and the car, Sam dropped another bomb on his unsuspecting brother.

"Dean, it's after one o'clock," the younger brother observed, looking at his watch as he walked behind his fast tiring brother. Dean had been wobbling noticeably on the crutches for the better part of the last hour and Sam fast realized Dean hadn't been on his feet for this long since before the injury. "We've got a half hour drive back to Missouri's, and I'm hungry. I'm betting you are too..."

Dean paused, just about falling over as he stopped to fast. _Don't say it Sammy. Don't you dare say it._

"...so I thought today would be a good day for you to suck it up and come out to lunch. Burgers and Fries sound okay with you?" Sam was fast talking and he knew it. His plan was to run his sentences together so fast that Dean wouldn't even know what he was agreeing to until it was too late to take it back. But Dean was quicker than Sam anticipated, and the older hunter was quickly at Sam's side, angrily starting down his little brother.

"How many times do I have to say no before you get the point?" Dean demanded, his hands gripping the handles of the crutches so tight his knuckles were turning white. "I don't want to be paraded out in public. I don't want to feel their stares and I don't want to receive their pity. What don't you understand about the fact that I just want to be left alone?"

Sam held firm, matching Dean's stare second for second. "It's not healthy, Dean. This whole becoming a recluse and hiding out from the rest of the world isn't good for you. And the longer you wait to see how people are really going to react, the harder it's going to be. Besides, since when have you ever cared what other people think of you. You're Dean Winchester, for crying out loud. I've never know you to give a shit about anything."

"Yeah, well I give a shit about this." Dean took off again, making a beeline for the car and wishing that he could just get in and take off. He needed to get away; needed to be free of his little brother's hovering and the kid's constant need to _help_ when all he really seemed to be doing was making the situation a hundred times worse. But Sam didn't let up, and by the time Dean was grabbing at the door handle of his car Sam was yammering away again.

"Dean, I want to help you. I really do. I just don't know how. Everything I do seems to be wrong. Tell me, Dean. Tell me what I can do."

"You can stop trying, Sam. That's what you can do!" Dean shot back, slumping in the seat and tossing the crutches to the ground so that Sam had to stoop to gather them up. "And for god's sake, Sam, stop trying to make this about you."

"What...I–" Sam couldn't hide the hurt and confusion Dean's exclamation had caused. He didn't know what to say; how to respond. _How am I making this about me? All I've been doing this whole time is trying to make Dean feel better. Trying to do what's right for Dean._

"All I ever hear coming out of your mouth is I I I, me me me. I'm sick of it, Sam. _I_ want to know how to help you. Tell _me_ what _I_ can do. God, Sam, get over yourself."

Sam cringed, realizing he _had_ been saying an awful lot of I's and me's. But wasn't that the way Dean normally wanted it? He never did anything for himself, as much as Sam had hated it all their lives. It killed Sam to admit it, to know _it_, but Dean never did anything for Dean; never felt his own life was worth the effort when there were other's out there to save. Dean was nothing if not a martyr, so if he wasn't going to get better for Sam then who the hell would he find important enough to get better for?

"Dean, I'm sor–"

"See, there you go again with the I's. This isn't about you."

"Fine." Throwing the crutches into the back of the car, Sam stormed around to the driver's side and climbed in with a huff, slamming the door. "You want me do stop making this about me Dean? You got it."

With a turn of the key and a loud rev of the engine Sam pulled out of the parking lot onto the road. They drove only a few minutes, neither one speaking but both stewing, before Sam turned the car into the parking lot of a roadside diner, cutting the engine before he addressed Dean.

"_I've_ been holding off on doing this because as much as you need it, _I_ didn't want to see

you go through all the pain and crap that you're dreading going through. But you know what, since you want me to stop making this about me then here we are. _You_ have to stop hiding from the world. _You_ have to stop being a stubborn bastard and start taking control of your life again. So here we go, Dean. This is about you; and _you_ are coming into this restaurant with me and _you _are going to face your life again. There's no choice, Dean. You either walk in with me, or I carry you kicking and screaming. Cause this is getting old real fast. Got me?"

Dean stared hard at Sam, ready to call his bluff. But Sam's eyes didn't lie, and Dean wasn't ready to make an even bigger fool out of himself by actually being carried in by Sam. Sure, he could put up a pretty big fight against his brother, but the little brat could really do a lot if he put his mind to it. And this, Dean feared, was far too important to Sam.


	15. Chapter 15

**_Hi again! Just another note to say that you guys are all awesome for stopping by and reading this humble author's story. For those of you hoping for a nice, calm, angst free diner scene, well I'm sorry to say that you're going to be very disappointed. Hopefully you'll still enjoy this though. As always, drop me a line and let me know what you think. _**

Dean followed Sam through the entrance to the diner with his head hung low, concentrating heavily on the floor and the placement of his feet. Without looking up he knew, instinctually, that every eye in the place had turned to look at his gimp self, and he refused to give them the satisfaction of knowing he saw them.

They took the closest booth available and Dean slid onto the first bench so that his stump was to the wall and the complete leg was visible on the outside. And then he shoved the crutches toward Sam with so much force that Sam nearly lost his balance grabbing for them; anything to disassociate himself from being crippled. If Sam wanted to force him into this nightmare then Sam could deal with the crutches.

He immediately reached for the metal napkin dispenser, grabbing a handful and beginning to meticulously shred them into minuscule pieces as Sam slid first the crutches and then his own body into the opposite booth.

"You gonna brood the entire time we're in here?" Sam asked.

Dean just nodded, didn't look up. "You told me I didn't have a choice about coming in here. You said nothing about being happy about it."

"Well would it kill you to at least try?"

"Are people staring?"

Sam looked around, saw the half-full diner and the patrons with their heads turned away just enough that they could still glance at Dean from the corner of their prying, inconsiderate eyes, and let out a frustrated sigh. "So what if they are, Dean? Are you gonna let them get to you?"

"I don't like being a spectacle, Sam. Is that so hard for you to understand?"

"What I don't understand is when you started caring what the rest of the world thinks. You're letting them do this to you, Dean. You're letting their stares and their comments keep you down, and that's just not like you."

"Yeah, well I don't really know who I am right now, Sam, so just–" Dean stopped mid-sentence as he noticed a shadow fall across their table. Instinct had him looking up to see who had arrived, and then he immediately dropped his head to the table again when he saw the pity in their waitresses eyes.

She had seen the boy's come in, there was no mistaking that, and the slight hesitation and increased volume in her voice as she asked "what can I get you boys to drink?" was enough to tell Dean that she had to compose herself before she approached. People acted differently around people who were different, consumed by an irrational fear that they might me contagious; they tried too hard, spoke too loud, hesitated when they talked as though afraid to say the wrong thing. Their thirty-something waitress wearing too much makeup and not enough clothing was doing all three.

Sam eyed Dean, wondering if his brother would place his own order, and deciding he definitely won't.

"Two cokes, please." He forced a smile for the woman, whose nametag read 'Tammy,' and clenched his teeth in doing so, hoping that she would get the point. _Don't screw with my brother. Please just act normal._

"I'll have those out for you in a jiffy," she replied, placing a menu in front of each brother before turning on her heels.

"Please, Sam, I just want to go out to the car," Dean implored as soon as the waitress was out of earshot, pulling out the puppy dog gaze as back-up. His fingers went back to the pile of shredded napkin he was creating and he continued to add to it.

"Sorry man, can't do that. You're only hurting yourself more when you hole up and refuse to come out. I don't want that for you, Dean. The more you face the world, the easier it will become for you. You'll thank me someday."

"Don't count on it," Dean mumbled, growing tired of the napkin destruction and now reaching for the salt shaker. He dumped a pile of the white crystals out on the table top and attempted to balance the glass container on one edge. It fell over six times before he finally had it balancing precariously on its edge and that was when Tammy returned with their drinks.

She dropped them heavily on the table, lined up in the center so there was no real definition as to which drink went with whom, but it shook the table and the salt shaker tipped over and Dean let out a low growl as he stared at his ruined hard work.

"You boys ready to order yet?" she asked, looking directly at Sam.

Neither one had even cracked their menu yet, but Sam grabbed for the greasy, laminated book and opened it up, scanning quickly over the typical diner fare and finally finding something acceptable - a grilled chicken sandwich - and requesting a salad with that instead of fries.

"How 'bout you, sugar, you know what you want?" Tammy looked over to Dean now, her eyes all jumpy as she looked without 'looking' at the despondent young man in front of her.

Dean didn't answer and he returned to fiddling with the salt shaker.

Several long, awkward seconds passed and Tammy glanced nervously over to Sam as if to say 'what am I supposed to get for him?' and Sam cleared his throat.

"Dean."

The salt shaker was now once again balancing on its edge and Dean next grabbed for the pepper shaker, determined to get it, too, on its edge. Sam called louder.

"DEAN."

He finally looked up, shooting Sam his most innocent expression as he asked in a low voice. "Yeah?"

"She's taking our order. What do you want to eat?

Dean shrugged. "Same as you, I guess."

Sam looked at him incredulously. "You want a chicken sandwich?"

Another shrug.

"And a salad?"

_No, Sammy. I don't even want to eat. I just want to leave._ Dean shrugged a third time. "I really don't care, Sam. Whatever."

One more skeptical look at his brother and Sam turned back to the waitress. "He'll have a quarter pound cheeseburger and fries. Hold the pickle." _I got him in here; the least I can do is order him something he might actually enjoy._

As soon as the waitress left Dean went back to his architectural efforts, lowering his head

as far from Sam's prying eyes as he possibly could, effectively shutting the boy out. Neither one spoke for several minutes, and the only sounds wafting to their ears were the fragment's of conversation coming from the diner's other patrons.

A couple of booths back, a group of four college aged girls were very intently discussing another friend's choice in guy, their stuck-up mentality berating the girl for choosing someone so 'beneath' her. To their right and down a booth a suit clad man and his frumpily dressed secretary were carrying on a very noticeable affair. A few booths down from there, a mother and her two young children were in an important debate over whether The Wiggles or Sesame Street should be the show of choice for the afternoon. And then there was the booth directly across from them, where a husband and wife were in a hushed conversation about Dean.

Sam first realized the conversation matter when he began to get the distinct impression that the woman couldn't keep her eyes off their table. Sam had casually glanced over, and sure enough, she was in the process of whispering something to her husband and her eyes kept darting in their direction.

Shifting a little on the seat, Sam finally was able to hear bits and pieces of their hushed conversation and he couldn't help the annoyance that overtook his emotions. "...must be miserable...can't imagine how I would feel...wonder what happened..."

Sam looked over at Dean, hoping his brother was too lost in his own self-pity to have heard the conversation. Dean's eyes were closed tight and his fists were clenched ever tighter, making little nail indentations in the callused skin on his palms. He'd bit down on his lower lip in his anger. There was no doubt, Dean had heard every word.

If just hearing the couple's conversation had irritated Sam, knowing that Dean had heard, and that his carefully thought out plan to get Dean back into the world was being sabotaged, flat out pissed Sam off. He took a deep breath to compose himself before acting, and then quietly excuse himself.

It only took two strides to cross the aisle to where the other booth was and Sam casually slid himself in beside the woman, arm resting on the top of the bench, above her shoulders. "Hi!" he greeted with sickeningly sweet enthusiasm. "How're you two doing this fine afternoon?"

The woman looked desperately uncomfortable as her cheeks began to flush and she slid down and away from Sam in one fluid motion. She shot a panicked look at her husband, pleading with him. _Do something!_ Her husband looked equally uncomfortable, but masked it with anger at Sam's intrusion. Neither one said a word and Sam continued.

"I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Thought maybe I could join in and offer my two cents to the mix. Figured you wouldn't mind, seeing as how you're willing to poke your nose into my business." He glanced over at Dean who was now glaring daggers in his direction, no doubt humiliated. But Sam had come to realize that to live in the disabled world was to stick up for oneself and to educate the rest of the world, and if Dean wouldn't do that for himself then Sam sure as hell was going to do it for him.

The couple continued to stare incredulously at Sam, taken completely aback at his brashness.

Sam place his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together, speaking in low, conversational tones. "So the thing is, my brother over there, the guy you two have been talking about, well he just lost his leg to a bear trap not four weeks ago. He's not really feeling all that great about it - thanks for asking - and you're absolutely right, he is miserable. And what's worse is that, here I am, trying to prove to him that he's not different, and that no one's going to stare at him and pity him; and here you are doing your damndest to prove me wrong."

The woman's mouth dropped open in defensive stature, but Sam held his hand up to stop her from saying anything. He wasn't done. "Think about it. Put yourself in his shoes. You're injured; feeling vulnerable and as undesirably different as a person can possibly feel. And then not three feet away from you you start hearing people talking about you and how you _must_ be miserable, and sticking their nose into your business when all you want to do is blend in with the crowd. How would you feel?"

Sam paused, looking expectantly from face to face as he waited for an answer. When none came, he pushed harder. "Well, how would you feel?"

"Iwoosu," the woman mumbled under her breath and Sam leaned in toward her.

"Hmm?"

"Iwoosu," she repeated, more softly if that was possible.

Sam crossed his arms and looked at her in stern disapproval. "Now come on, lady. You and I both know you can speak louder than that. Now try it again, and this time take the cotton out of your mouth."

"I said it would suck," she finally admitted. "I'm sorry."

"That's a bit better. But I'm not the one you really need to be apologizing too."

She seemed horrified, but had finally realized there was only one way they would get rid of this lunatic who had intruded upon their lunch and she finally looked over to Dean who was watching with horrified curiosity, a shade of red on his cheeks that came close to matching that of the woman's.

"I'm sorry," she said, and it almost sounded genuine. "I was a jerk...we, were jerks."

In that moment Dean decided that he hated Sam. He hated him for dragging him into this god-forsaken diner to be gaped at and discussed. He hated him for calling more attention to him with this little escapade. He hated him for not letting things be and telling this woman and her husband all about what had happened to him and how he was feeling. He hated his life.

And then he realized his mistake. Because in his stubbornness, he had inadvertently isolated himself from his only escape out of the restaurant by making Sam take the crutches. Dean wanted to storm out of there; wanted nothing more than to stomp loudly from this damn diner and get in his car and leave little brother behind in a cloud of squealing tires and scattered gravel. But he could barely get himself out of the booth, and even if he could he wasn't sure if he would be able to get to the crutches. And how much fun would that be to hop angrily from the building like a rabid little bunny anyway. The crutches just ruined the effect.

But he had to get out; there was just no other way around it. He had to try. So Dean inched to the edge of the bench and pushed himself to a stand, hopping unsteadily as he leaned heavily on the wobbly table edge. And Sam was immediately at his side as Dean had feared he would be.

"Dean, where are you going? Let me help you"

Dean shrugged out of Sam's grasp. "You've done enough, Sam."

He bent over the table, reaching for the crutches and nearly losing his balance in the process. Sam's hand instinctually reached out for him, grabbing under his arm and pulling him back up. Dean let him, but as soon as he was up he yanked out of Sam's grasp again and planted his arms in the cuffs of the crutches, swinging unsteadily out the door without looking back.

"Dean wait, please!" Sam called as he wrenched a twenty from his wallet, dropping it on the table before taking off after his brother.

The stubborn hunter was halfway to the car by the time Sam made it out of the restaurant, determinedly evading the potholes in the crumbling parking lot. He heard Sam call out to him again and clenched his teeth in stalwart refusal to turn and acknowledge the boy. Sooner or later he would have to accept the fact that the car wouldn't unlock itself and he would have to allow Sam access to the keyhole.

But that didn't mean he had to look at his brother, and it certainly didn't mean he had to talk to him. He paused at the car, leaning against the side with more than enough space for Sam to maneuver in, open the door, and get the hell out of Dean's way. But Sam had other ideas.

"Dean, please, you have to talk to me," he begged breathlessly; and why the hell was Sam out of breath when Dean was the one struggling along on crutches.

Crossing his arms, the cuffs still locked onto Dean's forearms, he grunted and turned his head away from Sam. "I've got nothing to say to you, Sam. You shouldn't have done that."

"I was trying to help," Sam whined apologetically.

"Yeah, well you didn't."

"Dean, please–"

He couldn't stand it anymore. It was just too much. Dean exploded. "You're a hypocrite, you know that Sammy?"

Taken aback, Sam just stared at Dean.

"You sit there and you preach to me about all this 'act normal' bullshit. 'Don't let them get to you, Dean,' you tell me over and _over_ again. But when the cards are down, you can't take the heat anymore than I can. You may even be worse."

Sam's mouth gaped open. "I...I'm sorry. I...what did I..."

"Those people start talking about me and you can't wait to get up and put them in their place. What happened to ignoring people? What happened to disregarding their ignorance?"

Shaking his head firmly, Sam denied the accusation. "No, Dean, that's not what happened. You were upset. I thought–"

"You thought what, Sammy, that I couldn't handle a little talk? People talk about us all the time; we're weird, we're different. What we do, how we dress, we're bound to get comments. I'm used to it."

"That's bullshit and you know it," Sam challenged, calling Dean's bluff. "All those days in the hospital, even now, all you've cared about is how people are going to see you. So tell me what this is really about or we're not going anywhere."

Dean hesitated. Was he really this transparent? But then again, if he didn't tell Sam now, then the kid would never learn.

"You embarrassed me," he finally whispered, turning his head away in shame. "Those people, the way they were talking, was rude and annoying, and I wanted nothing more than to smack them right across their self-righteous faces. But what you did was worse, Sam."

"I was trying to help," Sam repeated, slumping against the side of the car. "I'm sorry, I...I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry Dean."

"Yeah, well, sorry doesn't always cut it, Sam."

"What can I do, Dean? What do you need?"

Dean sighed. "Right now, I just need time. Take me home please. I need to be alone."

"Fine." Sam opened the door and held it as Dean struggled into the front seat, desperately trying to mask his emotions so Dean wouldn't know how hurt he was. He was right, this shouldn't be about Sam. He took the crutches from his brother without saying a word and stuffed them into the back seat, and then circled around to the other side of the car, slumping into the driver's seat in a huff. He waited with baited breath as he turned the key, expecting Dean to come back with an exasperated 'Awww, Sammy, come on man,' but the words never came and Sam knew any pleas he made would be shot down before all the words ever came out.

Not a sound was made between the two the entire drive home, and Dean couldn't even bring himself to pop in some music as he brooded, head resting against the window as he stared sightlessly at the scenery outside.

They pulled up in front of Missouri's house, Missouri's _normal_ house, where Bobby was currently teetering at the top of a ladder fixing some loose shingles that he'd noticed the day before and just had to fix because, well, the man would go stir crazy just sitting around doing nothing while he waited for Dean and Sam to return. He'd wondered if it was time to head back to his own house when he found himself bored to tears that morning, but the sight of John's boys, both distraught and utterly tormented as they climbed out of the old Impala, had Bobby singing a different tune. He simultaneously glanced around for more work to do while calling gruffly down the ladder "How'd the first session go?"

Sam's look of desperation as he shook his head at the man, _Don't ask, Bobby, just don't ask,_ made him cringe and he scrambled down the ladder just as Dean made it to the three steps leading up to Missouri's porch. Dean paused for just a second before his anger gave him the strength to grab the railing and hop the three steps up as the remainder of his weight rested on the two crutches now clutched in one hand. When he was at the top, he readjusted his support once again, one crutch in each hand again, and slammed into the house.

Bobby could see Sam struggling with himself, knew the boy was barely holding back a 'Dean wait,' as he agonized over following his brother into the house or staying put and unburdening himself to the father figure. Whether a good decision or a bad, Sam's allegiance to Dean finally had him racing off into the house after his brother.

The smell of homemade baked goods wafted throughout the entire house, stating yet another sense of normalcy to the tortured young man now scooting up the stairs on his rear. Sam caught Dean's eye as he cleared the fifth step and recoiled immediately, noting the utter despondency and desperation in his brother's expression. Dean was beyond angry anymore; somewhere in the silent car ride home Dean had completely fallen apart.

"Dean, stop," Sam called, finally finding the strength to speak again if only to implore hope from his brother as he watched the man scoot up the stairs in far more demeaning a fashion than either one of them would have liked, dragging the despised crutches with him inch by inch.

Missouri had heard them come in and came from the kitchen to greet the boys, but she abruptly stopped when she noted the emotion swirling between the two. She now watched from the doorway of the dining room, pressed against the side as though she might draw strength from the molding. She could see Bobby watching from the screen door, too wary to come in, but caring too much to turn away.

"I said I want to be alone," Dean glowered, his voice too monotonous and withdrawn for anyone's liking.

"I don't think you should be," Sam countered, his voice gentle, yet fear-laden.

Dean bit back a flinch as his leg chose that moment to once again return to the haunt, invisible pain flaring through every synapse of his leg. He shot his brother a glance as he stoned up his face again, desperately hoping that Sam hadn't noticed.

A flash of recognition passed over Sam's face because he _had_ seen the flinch and Dean's words in the doctor's office suddenly came rushing back at him. _Yeah, I still get the phantom pain. I'd say the pain level is about a three._ I f Dean had thought he was getting rid of Sam before, he now stood no hope.

"You said the phantom limb pain was still bothering you." It was a statement, not a question, and it held accusatory tones despite Sam's attempts at keeping those hidden.

"Yeah, so what if it is," Dean replied, but his nonchalance was not working on Sam and he cringed as his little brother began his assent up the stairs just as Dean finally made it to the top.

Dean scrambled to his feet, frantically trying to outrun Sam. What he attempted to accomplish in this race he didn't know, but he knew he had to make it to the room before his brother; had to put as much distance between himself and his over-bearing little brother as he possibly could.

Sam sighed, watching the deer caught in the headlights look his brother had as he darted off down the hall. _How am I supposed to fix this? He won't even let me near him._

The door was closed by the time Sam made it to the room, practically slammed in his face if truth be told. He knocked softly, trying his best to respect his brother's privacy despite his instincts to the contrary. "Dean, please, open the door."

"I asked you to leave me alone!" came the muffled reply.

"Dean, you're in pain!" Sam worried. "I can tell. Let me help you."

"There's nothing you can do about this, Sam. Just let me deal with it on my own."

"Dean, please..."

"SAM! Asking doesn't seem to work with you, so now I'm telling you; LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!"

Sam backed off, reluctantly accepting that Dean would not be appealing to him any time soon. "Alright," he called meekly as he finally backed off. "I'm leaving, Dean. But please call me if you need anything. Please." He finally turned on his heel and slowly made his way back downstairs, meeting the curious concern from Missouri and Bobby.

"I blew it," Sam moaned as he crossed into the living room and slumped on the couch. "I had _one_ chance, and I fucking blew it."

Missouri hastened to Sam's side, biting her tongue on reprimanding Sam on his language and instead draping an arm around the young man as Bobby dropped heavily into a large easy chair. "What happened?"

Sam shrugged despondently, but didn't hesitate in speaking as he told Bobby and Missouri everything that had happened since they left the house early that morning. When he was done Missouri suggested he lay down and nap for a while, assuring him that things would all look better after Dean had a chance to rest. "We'll get him down here for dinner," Missouri assured. "Just give him some time."

Sam nodded, eager to believe the woman as she lay a blanket around his shoulders. He drifted off in an uneasy sleep, surprised at how tired his body had been, but Missouri brought him back to startled alertness a couple hours later with her frantic voice. "Sam. Sam! Get up!"

He blinked groggily, trying to bring his foggy mind to focus on her desperation. "Sam, something's wrong. I think you need to go check on your brother."


	16. Chapter 16

_Wow, that last chapter was my best yet in terms of reviews. I'm truly touched by the number of you who offered your thoughts on the story. So I wrote my little heart out in an attempt to get this one up for you all as quickly as possible. I made a promise to some of you that this would be the darkest chapter, and that it would start looking up from here - which meant I had to write a longer chapter in order to finish everything I started. Yes, this is the suicide chapter. And no, I do not write character deaths. Hope that's enough to keep you all reading. Once again, thanks so much for all your kind words and wonderful loyalty. You all rock. And now, we continue..._

**Two Hours Earlier**

Options. He had multiple options, and Dean weighed each one individually, carefully debating on the pros and cons of each one as he sat on the closed toilet lid. His hands shook nervously as his eyes darted from one to the next, scrutinizing every angle to come up with the best plan for everyone. The hollow echo of the dripping water in the sink seemed to count donw the seconds until he made his choice. _Drip. Option one. Drip. Option two. Drip. Option three... _They all beckoned to him. _Choose me, Dean. No, Dean, pick me! _Every one had its good and its bad..._well, its bad and its worse_, he rationalized. And yet, the one thought that never seemed to cross his tormented mind as he debated his options was that, if he was thinking rationally enough to consider every angle, why was he even contemplating suicide in the first place.

But then, that was a Winchester for you. First his attention fell to the gun, heavy in his hand but natural, familiar. The curve of the handle seemed to fit him better than any glove ever would, the trigger smooth and shiny from years of use. And the realization that this would be the most fitting, the most Dean-like resolution to his problem sat foremost in his mind. He could eat a bullet no problem; one pull of the trigger and he'd be gone. But then he considered the noise it would make, and the fact that Sam would hear the gunshot immediately and come running. He couldn't let Sam find him still warm, blood and matter sprayed everywhere. No, a gun just wouldn't do.

In his other hand he held his favorite hunting knife, the eight inch blade shiny and polished and he turned away from the reflection that stared back at him. The knife would be equally fitting, he supposed; one slit up each wrist and he'd drain dry. Maybe do it in the bathtub with the water up to his neck; if the blood loss didn't get him he'd surely drown. And it would be an easy clean up too, just pull the plug and everything would drain away; the water, the blood, his life. But then again, he had to be sure he was dead before Sam ever found him, and how long did something like this take? Sam would probably freak out if he heard the water running and rush to make sure Dean didn't need any help. He'd done it every other shower Dean had taken for the last several days, why not this one? Besides, it was still too much blood and gore and he just couldn't do that to Sammy. Even in death, he would protect his little brother.

So blood was out; nothing violent. He had no rope, which meant hanging was out too. And as much as he hated to admit it, jumping from the window didn't guarantee death; only more pain and injury than he currently could handle.

And so his eyes fell to the orange bottle of pain pills, nearly full and so inviting. He took them only when the pain was absolutely unbearable, which was every day, but only once a day, so he still had plenty to do the job. That would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just swallow the entire batch, lay down and wait for them to take effect. It was quiet and painless and oh so neat, and if his memory served he was certain he had an almost full bottle of Jack in his bag to chase the chalky horse pills down with. So yes, that was the plan.

Sam would be okay with this...right? His debate was the pull, the one thing that might keep him here on this miserable earth, the one reason to live among thousands of reasons not to. It was a struggle, a fight literally to the death. But living would only make this about Sam, yet again, right? And this was about Dean. What _Dean_ felt. What _Dean _needed. What _Dean_ was going to do.

He rose from the toilet, shivering a little in only his boxer briefs, and left the bathroom in search of the booze. It was easy to find, hidden right where he'd left it under a stack of t-shirts on the left side of the bag, and he opened it up and took a long swig before doing an about-face and returning to the bathroom.

Slamming the bottle on the sink beside the pills, Dean sat back down on the toilet, still fighting the battle of wills going on within his mind. He looked down, seeing the situation that had brought him to this point in the first place. His leg lay unwrapped, hanging limply over the edge of the seat with the old gauze uncoiled and laying in a heap on the floor. The scar was still somewhat red, and his leg was swollen from the prodding he'd endured at the hands of Dr. Jennings, and yet it was still far skinnier than the other leg now, the muscle atrophy having set in. He reached out a tentative hand and rubbed at the stump, desperately trying to control the pain that flared up every day about this time. There was really only one way he'd found controlled it, and that was popping one of the pills and wrapping his leg in heat while massaging it. He'd come to expect it, he supposed, and if Sam really thought about it he would realize that this was the time of day he was normally most irritable.

But Sam was too busy formulating a plan to make Dean super-gimp, and had flat-out missed all the signs his brother had oh so conspicuously set out for him. This pain, not just the physical, but the emotional as well, was the reason for the pills sitting open on the counter, and the reason he sat nearly nude in the middle of the powder blue tiled bathroom. It was the reason Dean had brought along his gun and his knife and the contemplative desire to end it all here and now. But Sam was the reason for the debate.

He tried not to think about Sam, because dammit, how fair was it that the little shit could possess so much control over his life. It was _his _life for god's sakes and if he was done with it then no one should be able to tell him otherwise. This should be it. Done. Finito. Final.

And yet, all he could do was let his mind wander to Sam. The thought of his kid brother downstairs, mulling over how he could pull Dean from his slump, was just too unbearable not to consider. His brother tried so hard; even Dean had to admit that. And who was he kidding, he would have said the same things to Sam if he'd been in his position. He would have done the same things, made the same arguments. Hell, Sam was just a mini version of Dean when it came to over-protective, mother henning instincts. And why not? The kid had learned from the best there was.

_Aw hell, who am I kidding? _Dean grabbed for the orange container of pills and spun the top off, dumping several in his hand before he paused again. The mocked him from his sweaty hand, calling to him. _Loser. Worthless._ His hesitation lasted only long enough to make the pills moist with sweat, leaving behind a white residue on his hands as he dumped the five pills into his throat and swallowed them with a long gulp of Jack Daniels. The alcohol burned going down his throat and mixed harshly with the acid churning in his ambivalent stomach. It hadn't yet conceded to death by overdose despite Dean's desires, and it immediately began to fight its ill-desired contents.

Dean wasn't stupid. He knew full well that taking just five of the pills along with the Whisky would only succeed in making him sick to his stomach. But he hadn't yet committed to the act, just the idea, and this was merely the start.

Depression set in harder as his fallacious thoughts clouded truths. Who would miss him? No one. Well, Sam...maybe. But he would get over it. He'd pretty much gotten over Jess already. And he had Bobby and Missouri to help him through it, plus a whole slew of friends back in college if he ever decided to return there, and if Dean was out of the picture Sam would have nothing to stop him from returning. Sam had a whole freakin network without Dean. He would be fine.

And besides, Dean was nothing if he couldn't hunt, couldn't save people, couldn't protect Sammy. So Sam would just be better off, because right now he was just in the way. With him around, Sam would be determined to convince him that he could have the life he'd once known. Dean had no doubt that Sam would go out of his way to get Dean back in the hunt, and that just couldn't happen. It was too dangerous; he was a liability.

He'd never known anything other than the hunt, so there was no chance he could comfortably fall out of hunter's mode and fall into 'normal' life with a wife and two kids and a little white picket fence. He'd been a drifter for far too long to comfortably settle into urban living; no doubt he'd go crazy. And besides, what self-respecting woman would want him now that he was damaged goods? There was no way he could do that to someone.

Dean had begun feeling woozy as he sat there, falling deeper into his depression, and his vision swam, making it hard to reach for the pill container. His hands finally closed around the plastic container on the second try and he dumped another seventeen into his open hand, spilling a few more in the process. Another swig of the whisky to wash down the new pills, putting him a third of the way down the fifth, had him swaying dangerously and he nearly fell off the toilet seat as he made to put the bottle back on the counter. The container never made it, barely finding any base on the counter before tipping over and spilling to the floor, and it occurred to him that he might want to get to the floor too, or his own falling at some point might result in a loud thump that would undoubtedly make Sam come running.

So he grabbed for the crutches again, gripping the handle of one for balance as the other arm clutched the toilet, and he slid down to the floor in a not so graceful heap. His back rested against the side of the tub, head lolling and bobbing as he tried unsuccessfully to keep it upright. His vision went in and out of focus, seeming to cling to the latter more and more as time went on. He reached once again for his favored poison, weakened fingers clinging awkwardly to the glass bottle as he took another swig of Jack, now more than half gone.

"I'm sorry Sammy. I just can't do this any more," he whispered forlornly, as he looked once again at his ruined leg, hammering in the reminder of his despised new life. Another gulp of whisky was taken greedily from the bottle before he gave in to the weightless sleep that had started to consume him. The pain was finally gone, and with it, the emotional turmoil. He dipped forward, forehead clipping the edge of the toilet before he dropped lifelessly to the floor in a jumbled heap.

xxxxxxxxxx

That was when Sam awoke to Missouri's worried face. "Sam, something's wrong. I think you need to go check on your brother."

At her words the young hunter sprang to his feet, eyeing the older woman in a panic. "What happened, Missouri? Where is he?"

She shook her head. "Upstairs, I think, but I don't know what happened. I just got this really strange feeling and–"

Sam didn't wait for her to finish as he bolted up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Missouri followed, much slower but still quick for her aching body. She called out to Bobby as they went, urging the man to come inside and help them out.

"Dean!" Sam called frantically, ignoring the closed bedroom door and bursting through it in a loud bang of splintered wood and paint. He scanned the bedroom, taking note of the jumbled mess of clothes and weaponry on the bed, but no Dean.

"Dean! Where are you man?" Sam screamed, racing through the bedroom to the closed bathroom door and yanking it open with a mighty flourish. "Oh god, Dean." He paused for just a second to soak in the sight in front of him. There lay his brother, his larger than life big brother, collapsed on the floor in his underwear. One arm hugged the base of the toilet, the other was still slung over the lid. His complete leg crisscrossed over top of the stump. The remainder of his prescription was strewn across the tiled floor, sharing space with Dean's two favorite weapons. The gun rested beside the base of the sink cabinetry, as though placed there safely out of the way. And the knife lay just out of reach of Dean's outstretched fingers on top of his pile of discarded clothes. Sam practically tripped over his brother's legs as he clambered through the bathroom to Dean's side and turned him over.

Thank God he was still warm. "Come on, man, don't do this to me."

"Call an ambulance!" Sam screamed into the bedroom as he pulled Dean into his lap, fingers frantically searching for Dean's carotid artery. He let out a minute sigh of relief when he found the lethargic beat, weak and thready, but there.

"Dean please, wake up, come on," Sam begged, desperately slapping Dean's cheek and horrified when he got no response as Dean's head lolled limply away in response to the slaps.

"Sam, Missouri's calling for help. What happened?" Bobby stood in the doorway, his stocky body taking up all the space as he looked in worried concentration to the two Winchester's on the ground.

"I'm not sure, I think he OD'd," Sam replied frantically, one hand grabbing up a few of the scattered pain medication from the ground and tossing them furiously at the cabinetry. "Damn it! I never should have left him alone!"

Bobby dropped to his knees, eyes locking on Sam's. "Now's not the time," he admonished gently. "How's Dean?"

Sam looked back down to his brother, limp in his arms, blue lips against a pasty white complexion, breath coming out in ragged gasps of air. When he looked back up at Bobby no words were needed to express his sheer panic at the situation. _He tried to kill himself. How do you think he's doing?_

It was all he could do to draw up as much calm, soothing energy as he could muster, but somehow Bobby managed to do it for Sam. "Alright, let's get him downstairs; get him closer to the ambulance, give the paramedics more room to work.

Sam nodded and began scooping Dean up in his arms, working on auto-pilot. Bobby leaned in to help, but Sam grabbed Dean tighter, unwilling to let go, unwilling to give up any more link to Dean. Bobby backed off, understanding Sam's need to do this on his own, and moved from the doorway to create more room. One arm under Dean's knees, the other around his shoulders with Dean's arms slung limply around his neck, Sam hefted his brother up in his arms and skirted from the bathroom, noticing for the first time that his brother was so much lighter without a portion of his leg. It almost made him sick to his stomach and he found he had to concentrate solely on the task if he wanted to keep his stomach from churning. "He needs a blanket."

Bobby sprang to action immediately, grabbing one of the blankets from Dean's bed and snugging it around the unconscious hunter in Sam's arms before following the boys downstairs, meeting Missouri on her way back up with the phone to her ear. She stopped, turned back around, and led them to the couch in the living room.

"Sam, is he breathing? Does he have a pulse?" she asked, referring to questions the operator on the other end of the phone was asking and relaying double yes's at Sam's nod of the head. "She says to look at his eyes. Check his pupils."

After laying Dean on the couch Sam did as Missouri said, prying open Dean's eyelids to inspect his green eyes. "I can barely see his pupils," he cried back desperately. "They're just like tiny pinpricks. Is that bad?" The question might have been funny if Sam hadn't been so frantic, because it was one of the first things their father had taught them in First Aid 101: anything other than a normal pupil was potentially bad.

Missouri turned back to the phone, ready to ask what pinpoint pupils meant when they heard a loud rasping sound as Dean sucked in a final breath and then stop breathing entirely.

"Oh god, Dean!" Sam screamed, his tormented face looking from his brother to Missouri to Bobby. _Somebody do something! Fix this._

"Where's that damn ambulance?" Missouri demanded in a very unconventional Missouri tone as Bobby sprang forward to help Sam.

"You know CPR," he assured the boy, nodding him on towards Dean's mouth. "Check his pulse first."

Sam did as he was told, shaking his head in panic for several seconds before Bobby concluded Dean would need compressions too and placed his hands over the boy's chest. "You can do this, Sam. You breath for him." Bobby began his compressions, whispering the count under his breath.

"One two three four..."

"Dean, come on man, don't you dare do this to me," Sam cried, hovering over Dean's face as he prepared for his own job.

"...nine ten eleven..."

"Don't you fucking die on me!"

"...fifteen sixteen seventeen..."

"You don't get to do this, Dean. You don't get off this easy. You're not done fighting. I'm not done fighting for you."

"...twenty-three twenty-four twenty-five..."

"This isn't the end of the fucking world, Dean. You can get past this!"

"...twenty-nine thirty..." Bobby glanced at Sam, offering an indication it was his cue to take over. Sam leaned down, offering his two breaths with as much a sense of responsibility as Dean had felt when he'd carried baby Sam from the fire twenty-three years earlier. Now he knew what it felt like to hold his brother's life in his hands and it sucked.

It felt like years had gone by in the five minutes and twenty three seconds it took for the ambulance to get there from the time Missouri had first called, and every emotional fiber in Sam's being had beyond depleted when the two paramedics gently moved him aside and took over the CPR. Their abrupt questions and barked orders come out only as muffled echoes in his brain and Bobby's frenzied answers barely registered. All he could think about was Dean, despondent, depressed, suicidal. His brother..._his_ _brother_ had tried to kill himself, very well may have been successful.

"I have to go with him," Sam insisted, barely recognizing his own voice.

The paramedics eyed him with uncertainty. It was against policy to take on passengers; too many liabilities. But this kid looked like he could pass out at any second, and then he'd be a patient himself. The woman who had called made the decision for them and they threw relieved smiles Missouri's way as Dean was loaded onto the stretcher.

"Sam, you'll ride over with Bobby and me. I don't want you to be alone at the hospital. Besides, I'm sure these nice people need every inch of space in the ambulance to help Dean. Come on, we'll be right behind them."

He wanted to protest, wanted to tell Missouri that no way was he leaving Dean behind. But then he looked over to his brother, saw the IV pushing fluids through his arm and the red marks on his brother's bare chest from where the defibrillator had to shock his heart back into rhythm, saw the ambu bag the female medic was squeezing in a slow rhythm as it provided his brother with his only chance of air, saw Dean's pale face and still body, and felt his knees give way. He didn't have the energy to protest.

Bobby's strong arms were there to catch Sam as he slumped to the ground and he heard his old friend's reassurance to the medics. "He'll be fine. Just take care of his brother." And then the stretcher frame locked into place and they wheeled Dean out the door.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sam sipped obediently at his third cup of orange juice, picking at the bag of pretzels until he caught sight of Missouri's watchful glare and actually popped one of the salty twists in his mouth despite his fear that his stomach would protest. After his collapse, Missouri had only agreed to let Sam join them at the hospital if he agreed to let her take care of him: no protests. And so he'd allowed her to force cup after cup of the sugary juice his way and he'd put just enough food into his mouth to appease her and he'd stopped pacing after she'd finally snapped at him that he would wear a hole straight down to the next floor if he didn't sit still.

His knee bounced spastically up and down in time to the rush of thoughts streaming through his mind as he once again recollected all the events leading up to the moment Dean downed a bottle full of pain pills to escape life. And every last thought, every last memory brought Sam back to one conclusion. Once again, it was his fault.

It was Sam who had insisted on the hunt through the woods, Sam who hadn't done enough research beforehand and led them in blind, Sam who had failed to get Dean out of the woods in time - and yeah, yeah, yeah, there was always that nagging reminder that Dean would have lost the leg anyway, but that didn't make it any less his fault.

All through the hospital stay, their three days in the hotel, coming back to Missouri's house; there had to have been something Sam could have done to make the pain less...painful. There _had _to have been something; something he could have said, something he could have done. He shouldn't have pushed so hard, shouldn't have insisted Dean go out in public so soon, shouldn't have pushed the therapy, shouldn't have allowed him to leave the hospital so soon, and he really shouldn't have left him alone this afternoon. Dammit!

"I knew he was going to do this," Sam whispered his revelation, staring down at his shaky hands.

Missouri and Bobby both looked over at Sam in shock at his claim. "Samuel Winchester, that's not true and you know it. You couldn't have known. Do not blame yourself." Missouri's hand reached out gently, settling itself firmly on Sam's two hands and pushing them down on top of his frantic knee, bringing a stop to the movements of all three appendages.

"You don't know, Missouri. You didn't see his face. He– he was so...lost. I should have done something."

"Sam–"

The young man looked up at Missouri, a lake's worth of unshed tears ready to fall at any second. "Please, just...don't. If I don't blame myself right now I'm going to have to blame Dean and I just can't put that on him." The words fell away as he finished the sentence, the last few words barely sounding past his lips, and Missouri recognized at once that there would be no convincing Sam any differently. It was a waste of breath.

Dean was Sam's hero; always had been, always would be. And in his eyes was fear. Fear that Dean had left him. Fear that Dean had _chosen_ to leave him, had actually sat in that bathroom and _conspired_ to take his own life to escape a life with Sam. And the only thing that he had to hold onto was the idea that maybe Dean hadn't made the choice to desert his little brother, but rather had OD'd based on some failure of Sam's to protect the man. Odd as it may seem, it was easier for the younger brother to accept his own failures to protect than to accept Dean's – because if Dean had failed to protect Sam then Sam no longer had a hero.

Missouri sighed and looked over to Bobby, strangely relieved to see that she wasn't the only one to come to that obscure revelation. They would suffer together, plot together, in an effort to change the young man's view of the situation without destroying his hero complex for his older brother. But that time was not now. Now, they had to find out about Dean.

Sam sprang to his feet before he was even certain that the blank-faced, scrub clad man making his way towards them was indeed Dean's doctor, and Missouri and Bobby weren't far behind in their assent. They hung back, allowing Sam to take the lead as the boy anxiously demanded, "My brother, how is he?" without even waiting for the formality of a name from the man in front of him.

"Dean Morrison is your brother?" the man asked, needing to validate relation to his patient before dispensing confidential medical information.

"Yeah, I'm Sam."

The doctor nodded his head towards Missouri and Bobby. "And they are?"

"About the closest thing to family we got," Sam insisted immediately, catching the reluctance in the man's tone. "They're fine, anything you've got to say...just...Dean, how is he? He...he's alive, right?"

The man nodded slowly. "Yes, Sam, he's alive. He's going to be okay."

For a second the world went silent as Sam took in the information. _Dean was alive. Dean was going to be okay. Dean had a second chance...and so did Sam._ His limbs began to tingle, as though they, too, had only been partially alive while waiting to hear about Dean and were now fully waking up again. But something stopped him from rejoicing too much and he eyed the doctor critically.

"There's a but in there..."

Sighing, the doctor - his badge read Galvin - motioned for the three to sit. "As you know, Dean's heart stopped and he had to be revived at the scene. He still wasn't breathing when he came in. We had to intubate him and perform a gastric lavage–"

At the blank stares he received, Dr. Galvin clarified. "We pumped his stomach. It's not a very pleasant process and he's likely to be very sore for the next few days. He's breathing on his own right now, but the tube is still in place. We'll remove that once he wakes up." He paused. "However, with the vast amount of drugs your brother had in his system, we have no choice but to assume he did so intentionally. He'll be placed on a 72 hour suicide watch starting now, and we'll be sending a therapist in to talk to him."

Sam nodded, oddly grateful for the therapist despite their inherent rule to never air their dirty laundry to strangers. Enough of what was happening to Dean was grounded in reality, in normal life, and Sam desperately hoped that talking out his feelings on this matter might very well help his brother. He surprised himself to discover that he'd crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping for luck.

"Doc," Sam stammered, nervously pushing himself to voice the nagging thought in his head. Sam knew enough about injuries and life and death that he couldn't just brush the thought aside. "He um...he stopped breathing for a while, and his heart stopped. Could that..." _Oh man, I don't even want to say this. I can't even think it. _"Could it have any um...any residual..."

"Are you asking if he could have brain damage?"

Sam nodded, relived that he didn't have to be the one to say it. He leaned into the comforting hand Missouri placed on his shoulder and waited for a reply.

"Brain damage is always a possibility in situations like these. We won't know for sure until Dean wakes up and can talk to us, but I'm inclined to think he's going to be fine. His reflexes are intact, his pupils are equal and reactive, and he really wasn't without oxygen for long enough to truly worry. All in all your brother is a lucky man.

_Huh. Lucky._ Sam could only smirk at the man, unwilling to consider his brother lucky at this point. Dean was many things, but lucky sure as hell was not one of them.

"Can we see him?" Sam asked hesitantly, no longer seeing a use for this man other than to guide them to his brother.

The doctor nodded. "They're settling him into a room now. I'll take you up there and you can wait outside until he's ready. He's still sleeping right now, but with the drugs out of his system he should be waking soon."

Sam, Missouri, and Bobby followed in a single file line after the doctor, working their way down the long hallway to a set of elevators and then down another long hallway three floors up. Now that the initial shock of the situation was over there didn't seem to be much to say, and so their walk was made in silence.

Dean was ready by the time they arrived. Bobby and Missouri hung back in silent understanding that Sam needed to go in by himself first, waiting in the hall and watching through the small window as Sam timidly made his way inside. He'd paused just inside the doorway, dragging in a deep breath as he prepared himself for the sight, and seemed to relax some when it appeared relatively normal. It was somewhat distressing to realize that, after seeing Dean that first night after he'd lost the leg, nothing else seemed close to being as bad.

He had an IV in his arm, rapidly pumping fluids into his depleted body, and several electrodes were stuck to his bared chest, monitoring his heart rate. There was a small bruise over his left eye from where he'd smacked the toilet on his way down. And the stem of a plastic breathing tube still protruded from his half open mouth, although no tube was attached and Dean was clearly breathing on his own.

The bluish tint to his lips and fingernails was now gone, but Dean was still far too pale for Sam's liking and Sam made sure to tell him so as he collected Dean's right hand in his own and sat in the chair beside the bed. "What the hell was that all about?" Sam bemoaned his brother's suicide attempt, focusing all his attentions on Dean's hand interlocked within his own. He couldn't look at him, couldn't accept what had happened.

"You should have talked to me, Dean. We could have worked through this, I know we could have. Taking your life isn't the answer." A lone tear fell from Sam's eye, breaking free from the ever growing pool of moisture Sam had been trying to hold back, and it dropped delicately onto Dean's rough hand, sliding across the outline of one of the tendons before drying out at his knuckle. With the back of his free hand, Sam swiped at his eyes, angrily wiping away the tell-tale moisture as he drew in a deep sniffle.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I should have seen you were hurting. I should have done something. I'm so sorry."

xxxxxxxxxx

It was Sam's voice that began to pull Dean from his slumber some two hours later. The feel of his body floating weightlessly through the air began to get heavier and heavier as he came closer to consciousness until he finally felt like a block of lead laying on a soft cottony cloud. He came to abruptly with a sharp cough and a choking sound that had Sam's head snapping up to see his brother gagging terribly on the tube stuffed down his throat. From what had become his usual hospital room post, in a chair against the wall on the opposite side of the room, Bobby looked up and took off immediately in search of the nearest nurse, demanding that she come quickly.

Sam hovered over his heaving brother, hands pressed firmly into Dean's shoulder's as he held the older man down against the bed, urging him to calm down and breathe around the tube, his brother's wild eyes beginning to scare him.

_I can't Sammy. It's choking me._ Dean wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but the only sounds he seemed to be able to make were the garbled gagging noises as he choked on the tube down his throat and he reached up with both hands to grab at the obstruction.

Sam's hold on his shoulder's quickly released and he felt his brother's strong grip lock onto his wrists and pull his hands down to their sides. "I need help in here!" Sam screamed to the now empty room and was immediately rewarded with the presence of a nurse, Bobby, and Missouri, who had been returning from a trip to the cafeteria when she ran into Bobby dragging the nurse down the hall.

Bobby immediately took up residence on the other side of Dean, wrestling one of the young man's hands away from Sam and taking over in holding that side down, as the grandmotherly nurse stepped into Dean's line of sight, eying him sternly.

"You've got a tube down your throat, young man. Don't try to fight it. The doctor is on his way and we're going to remove it, but you need to calm down. You're just going to hurt yourself by doing this."

The reprimand didn't seem to have any effect, and if anything Dean just seemed to fight harder, shaking his head from side to side in desperation as his stomach heaved in rhythm to his fast increasing heart monitor. He felt like he was about to throw up, and the cramping in his stomach was doing nothing to ease those feelings.

Sam finally appeared in his line of sight again. He continued to use one hand to hold Dean down, but the other hand now reached up to rest gently on his brother's sweaty forehead as soothing words came out of his mouth. "Dean, shhh, you have to calm down,"

Sam insisted, squeezing Dean's hand firmly within his own grasp. "Everything is going to be fine. The doctor's on his way up."

Dean finally began to calm down as he looked to Sam with big, fearful eyes. By the time the doctor had arrived he was breathing almost normally, and he listened intently as the man explained the removal process. Deflating the cuff deep inside the tube that held it in place, Dr. Galvin counted to three and pulled as Dean exhaled, eliciting yet another round of painful coughs and spasms that had Dean doubling over on himself in desperate need of oxygen.

The monitors frantically beeped their warning as Dean's heart rate nearly doubled and Dam could think of nothing to do except jump in and hug his older sibling, grabbing him tight around the chest and holding on for dear life as Dean heaved in breath after ragged breath of stale hospital air. When he'd regained some control over his breathing Sam made to release Dean and was surprised when the older hunter continued to lean in for support. Hesitant arms rewrapped themselves around Dean's shaking form as Sam continued to whisper soothing words.

Several minutes later, a cupful of ice chips was offered by one of the nurses and Sam eagerly accepted it, releasing Dean back against the bed so he could offer his brother some of the soothing relief. Dean ate several greedily before the thought even struck him that his little brother was actually feeding him, and then he roughly grabbed for the cup, spooning another several chips into his mouth. He finally leaned back against the bed when the cup was empty and his coughing had stopped. The nurses were gone, and he only just now noticed Sam, Missouri, and Bobby all staring at him with a mixture of fear and anger written across their faces.

He curled in on himself, arms crossed tight against his chest. _My God, how do I explain myself. I'm not supposed to be here. I'm not supposed to be alive. "_I'm sorry," Dean finally muttered, although the only thing he seemed to truly be sorry for was the fact that he hadn't succeeded in his mission. _I truly am a loser. I can't even kill myself right._

Sam was terrified. This was his moment, his second chance to do right by his brother. He struggled with the fact that he'd blown the first chance, and number two had come along by sheer chance of fate. There would be no three. Yet all he could think to do, the only words streaming through his overtaxed mind were accusing. Now was not the time to yell and scream and berate; it would solve nothing. And so, Sam said the only thing he could think to say that wasn't an accusation.

"No Dean, _I'm_ sorry."


	17. Chapter 17

**_I'm not sure if I should have continued with this chapter or if it's okay stopping where it does, but I'm going out of town tomorrow and wanted to get something posted for you all before I left, so this is what we have. On the bright side, I should have lots and lots of time to catch myself up and get back on track with having several chapters written ahead. We're beginning to move forward with the healing process now. I hope I can continue to do justice to this story and the boys' emotions. Thank you all once more for your continued support and all those wonderful and encouraging reviews. I can't begin to tell you how much it excites me to open my mailbox and find such kind and heartfelt words toward my story. Keep 'em coming and I'll keep the story coming - seems like a fair trade, don't you think? Enjoy..._**

Dean refused to talk to Sam, or anyone else, about what he had done. In the three days he sat under suicide watch he was sullen and withdrawn yet oddly compliant. He ate when he was told to eat, slept when they told him to sleep, and even took a shower at their orders. The counselor Dr. Galvin had alluded to appeared each day and Dean sat through all three of the hour long sessions without so much as a negative word towards the woman. He didn't say much at all, for that matter, offering only single word, monosyllabic answers to her multiple questions. He refused to bare his soul to her, wouldn't acknowledge why he'd done what he'd done or how he was feeling presently. At times, though, she would make guesses to his emotional state, and when she was correct he would answer in the affirmative, when she was wrong he would shake his head no. And so, despite his reluctance to open up, for Dean, they were getting somewhere. It was a slow trek up a long, steep, winding, ice covered road, but Sam was strangely encouraged by Dean's sessions with the counselor.

In the end, though, it was Sam's over riding guilt that finally made Dean crack. The boy hadn't left his brother's side once since they admitted Dean to the hospital, and even when he was shooed from the room for the private counseling sessions Sam was never further away than the wall outside Dean's room. He was terrified that Dean might try something again; terrified that he might not be around to stop it the next time.

Bobby had started to call him _Uncle_ Sam, as in 'Uncle Sam is watching you,' which would have been funny if it weren't so bittersweet. But that was a _Dean_ joke, and Sam knew Bobby had really only said something because Dean wouldn't.

Nobody brought up the suicide attempt, each one too afraid of the answers they might be forced to hear. For Sam especially, he feared hearing out loud that Dean had purposely tried to leave him. It was bad enough having had the visual. But out of sight, in this case, was hardly out of mind.

Sam no longer slept because every time he closed his eyes he saw his brother's lifeless form on Missouri's bathroom floor. Dreams were cruel things, especially for Sam Winchester, and his mind seemed to play tricks on him more often than not. He'd tried to sleep the first night, curled up painfully in the too small wooden chair beside his brother's bed. But in sleep he not only saw the actual suicide attempt, but every additional possibility that hadn't happened, too. It was bad enough reliving the real thing, but it could have been so much worse and Sam had no desire to know just how much worse it truly could have been.

So when Dean was awake, Sam was awake, desperately trying to boost his brother's obsolete morale. And when Dean was asleep, Sam was still awake, his mind working overtime to come up with some way to help Dean that wouldn't be misconstrued as meddling or pushing or embarrassing. He'd replayed the memories of the diner scene over and over in his head, tearing it apart and lamenting each and every second of wrongness that he'd committed that day. If he had it to go back and do over again, there were so many things he would change. But he could only change the future.

Everyone had expected Dean to be climbing the walls of the hospital by the time his third day was over, but the morose hunter had never once even asked when he could go home, and he pretty much captured perfectly the 'deer caught in the headlights' look when Dr. Galvin finally told his family that they could take him home.

He'd watched Sam's face light up with relief and saw Missouri and Bobby intently listening to all the instructions the doctor gave before signing the final release papers. And he wished he could be that happy, that content, to be going home. But he wasn't happy or content, and if anyone had bothered to ask him, Dean would have told them he was downright scared to death about leaving the hospital. Inside the walls of the county hospital Dean was safe and cared for and he had people to make his decisions for him. They told him when to eat and when to sleep, when to get dressed, when to take his medication, and even how to feel. He could live with that. Right now he wasn't really feeling very confident in his decisions and Sam seemed okay with his new submissive attitude; maybe not thrilled to have lost the wise-cracking, smart ass, confident brother he once knew, but definitely glad just to have _any_ brother. But Dean wasn't sure if he could be so agreeable once he left the confines of the one place filled with the only people that never seemed to judge him.

Even Sam judged him now. He could see it in the kids eyes; could see the hurt Dean had caused him, the doubt at Dean's every thought and action. _Why'd you do it, Dean?_ He'd heard his brother ask late the first night when Sam had thought he was long asleep. _I just don't understand why you thought so little of me that you couldn't come and talk to me. Suicide is not the answer. You should have come to me. I'm your brother, Dean. What did I do to make_ _you doubt that you could come to me?_

Dean's heart ached for the pain he'd caused his little brother, and he wondered if this might be his punishment for trying to kill himself - this eternal guilt that would eat away at him constantly as he watched Sam suffer in his own misbegotten guilt. He debated over whether or not he would have the strength to make it up to the kid, or whether their relationship had been completely destroyed by Dean's destructive tendencies.

He really wasn't ready to face it. He wasn't prepared for the onslaught of emotion that threatened to accompany a conversation about his attempted suicide. His hospital appointed therapist had urged him to talk through his feelings. She encouraged him to talk to Sam, to tell his brother point blank how he was feeling and what he needed from him. Sam had been much more forthcoming with information than Dean had been, and so she'd come to him on the final day with knowledge of what had happened at the diner. Sam had told her how he'd screwed up and pushed Dean into something he hadn't wanted to do, and she, in turn, had insisted that Dean needed to share his desires and thoughts with Sam in order to prevent such a disaster from happening again. And as much as Dean hated to admit it, somewhere in among her obnoxious psychobabble he had to admit that the woman had a point.

On the way out of the hospital and to the car Dean studied Sam, realizing all at once that Sam had been walking on eggshells around him for the past three days. He was still the same clingy, hovering little brother he'd always been. But now he maintained an emotional distance that had never existed between them before. And what unnerved him the most was that Sam would no longer look him in the eye when they spoke. He'd lost his baby brother's trust.

There was only one way to bridge the gap that now existed between them, and as much as he really didn't want to, Dean knew what he had to do. He owed it to Sam for the destruction he'd caused to their relationship, to Sam's emotional state. He owed it to Sam because he was the protector, and God knew he hadn't been doing a very good job of protecting the kid lately. He'd attempted to get out, and that hadn't worked. Instead, Dean had been dragged kicking and screaming and fighting tooth and nail from his one chance at peace back into a world that very closely rivaled hell. He had one chance, one opportunity, to get out, and when that didn't work he'd come to the realization that he was never getting out. And that meant doing everything he possibly could to make this life bearable to live in. Starting with Sam.

He waited until they were alone, just himself and Sam driving home in the Impala with Bobby and Missouri far ahead of them in Bobby's truck. "Head over to the park," Dean ordered quietly, never glancing in Sam's direction as he stared solemnly out the window.

Sam looked over to Dean, cocking his head in question. It was the first time in three days that Dean had said something without being spoken to first. But with Dean neglecting to look at him, his brother would never know that Sam was questioning his order. Nothing more was said through the drive, despite Sam's constant glances towards his brother, disappointed every time that Dean had yet to look in his direction.

Dean spent the time working up his nerve, maintaining a constant streamline of encouragement as he attempted to convince himself that he was strong enough to have the impending conversation with Sam, when every ounce of pent up frustration within him said that he wasn't even close.

The Impala came to a slow halt in front of the tree lined entrance to the city park, off in the shadows and away from the majority of the other cars in the lot. Sam's hands patted out a steady rhythm on the steering wheel, nervously deciding what was to come next. He glanced once again at Dean. _Does he want to get out? Does he want me to get out? What the hell are we doing here?_

Over on his side of the bench seat Dean was lost in thought, barely aware that the car was now stopped and that Sam was impatiently waiting to find out what the detour was all about.

"Dean..."

He looked up when Sam hissed his name and blinked dazedly at his brother. It wasn't that he hadn't known this would be hard. God, he knew. But thinking about saying the words, and actually saying them were two totally different things. He took in a deep breath and held it for as long as he could before slowly releasing it and looking over at Sam.

"I, um..."

Sam pursed his lips and turned his whole body toward Dean, nervously awaiting whatever it was his brother wanted to say. Unsure of what else to do with his hands, he finally tucked them under his armpits to keep them steady. If he knew Dean, any nervous movements on his part could distract the older man, ultimately silencing him before he even began.

"Sam, I don't know what to say to you, man." Dean's own hands were his focal points, something to latch onto that was strong and familiar.

"You don't–"

"No, Sam. Please don't interrupt me."

Sam closed his mouth as quickly as it had opened and nodded his head, accepting the order without question.

"I don't know what to say to you, but I know I have to say something. It...what I did," he couldn't bring himself to say the actual word. _Suicide. I tried to commit suicide._ He knew Sam knew exactly what he was taking about, though, and saying it wasn't necessary.

"I don't know if this is going to help at all, Sammy," _God, do I even deserve to call you Sammy anymore?_ "I don't know if this is going to ease the pain, or help with the questions. I know you must have so many questions swimming around in your head, Sam, and I hope that someday I may be strong enough to help you to answer them all. But if it helps, Sam, you have to know that you were the one and only reason why I held on so long. I almost didn't do it...because of you."

It was a revelation that took time to absorb, and the car was once again filled with silence while Sam debated on his response. Or even whether or not he should respond.

"So what changed you mind?" Sam finally asked, his shaky voice almost a whisper.

Dean shrugged, but then caught the distressed look in his brother's eye and realized a shrug was no answer. He owed Sam more than that.

"Sam, I just...I don't...you don't know what it's like." He dropped his head into his hands, a heavy smack resounding through the deafening silence of the vehicle. Dean could feel himself losing control, feel the dreaded tears coming back for yet another attack on his all too frail mental state, and he wanted to get up and walk away, and only come back when he was strong again.

But who knew when that time would come..._if_ that time would come. And so he had to do it now, and he had to be strong. Eyes glistening with moisture, he looked at Sam. Really looked...and saw the fear that filled his brother from the tips of his toes to the highest hair at the top of his head, and he knew he had to do this for Sam. His voice wavered when he spoke again, and even taking several swallows couldn't mask the emotion. "I'm a hunter, Sam. It's not just what I do. It's who I am. It's every single fiber of my being; the only thing I've known since I was four measly years old."

"Dean, I know that. It's–"

"Sam, please. This is hard enough without you interrupting me."

Again, Sam nodded, lifting both hands up, palms out, in surrender. "I'm sorry. Please, go on."

Another deep breath. _God this is hard._ He was about to admit things to Sam that he wasn't even sure he was ready to admit to himself. "When I woke up in that hospital, and you told me that I'd lost my leg I...dammit, Sam, I pretty much felt as though my entire life was over right then and there. And ever since then I've been drowning in this void of surrealism. It's like I've been underwater for weeks with no hope of ever coming up for air. I'm useless, Sam. I only knew one thing in my whole, entire, fucked up existence; and that's hunting, Sam. Hunting, and protecting you. But now..." the first tear dropped from the wet pools that filled his eyes and Dean reached up and wiped angrily at the moisture of betrayal. "God, what the hell am I supposed to do now, Sam?"

The pause was deafening. Dean gulped back breath after breath of the Murphy's Oil scented air, desperately trying to fend off new tears, while Sam debated over his role in this conversation. _Can I talk now? Do I comfort him? Pretend he's not crying? Make a joke? What the hell am I supposed to do? What do I tell him. _

Finally, Sam uncrossed his arms and reached a tentative hand out to his brother, willing the trembling appendage to be still, to speak of confidence where there was none. "We'll figure something out, Dean. Together."

Dean shrugged free of Sam's touch, his frustration evidenced in his angry tone. "No, Sam! That's just it! You keep telling me we'll figure this out. You tell me that everything will be okay. But it won't. Things can't go back to the way they were, and I have no idea how the hell I'm supposed to move forward. I'm not a boy-genius like you, Sam. I have no collegiate aspirations; I have no desire to be a father or a husband. I can't be tied down, Sam. It's not alright; it never will be! Why can't you understand that?"

"Because I don't believe it," Sam replied hesitantly, not uncertain about his beliefs on the topic, but uncertain about how Dean would take it. It wasn't worth wasting his energies on trying to convince Dean that he could be normal until Dean was ready to accept it.

Dean sighed, running his hand through his hair and looking back out to window. "You have no idea what this has been like for me, Sam. There's no way you could; and yet you keep trying to convince me that it's so simple to get over this. It's not like I broke a bone or needed a few stitches, Sam. This is never going to heal. They carved me up like a fucking Thanksgiving turkey - 'here ya go, Pop, how 'bout a nice leg'-" Even miserable, the snark was never very far from the surface and Sam winced at Dean's tone.

"Dean, I know it's got to be hard, knowing you look different–"

"It's not just the appearance, Sam," Dean interrupted, annoyed once more at Sam's presumptions. "I mean, yeah, I hate that part. The stares. The pity. The whispers. I hate being treated with kid gloves, Sam. But that's not the whole thing. It's not even the biggest part."

"So what is?"

There was no easy way to say it, and he finally just blurted it out. "It's knowing that I will always be dependant on something - for the rest of my life I'm going to have to rely on something other than myself. And you know as well as I do, that the only thing you can really trust is yourself."

Sam flinched. There was a time that that sentence would have sounded more along the lines of 'we can only trust each other,' but now even he had been eviscerated from the equation. Dean only trusted himself, now. And just barely.

"The doctors have all said that a prosthetic will be able to provide you with just about everything a real leg-"

"It's still not the same!" Dean protested. He just couldn't let Sam finish a sentence. "It's _almost_ a real leg, Sam. But not the real thing. It's still something that I have to put on and take off, something that could fall off when I'm in trouble - when you're in trouble. It's not a sure thing, Sam. What's to say that it won't malfunction when I need it most?"

"What's to say that a bone in your real leg won't break and impede your performance?" Sam rebutted. "What's to say that a gun you strap to your back won't fall off? What's to say that your holy water has actually been blessed or that the batteries won't die on you in the EMF reader. Shit, Dean, just about anything could happen."

"It's different, Sam. You just don't get it."

"Then make me get it." Sam whined. "Make me understand."

Dean finally looked up, capturing his brother's look of desperation within his own steely gaze. "I'm trying, Sam. But it's hard to explain to someone what this is like without them going through it themselves. You just don't know, Sam. You can't. So you're just going to have trust me on this."

_I do, Dean; with my life. That's why it's so hard for me not to be able to help you. _"Dean, if I'm going to trust you, you have to trust me as well. You have got to let me in. If you need something, if you want something, don't want something - you've got to tell me. I'm not a mind reader, Dean."

Dean nodded. _I just don't know what I want, Sammy. _"I just..." Dean hesitated, once again about to admit something that he wasn't ready to commit to. "I'm scared to death Sam."

That stopped Sam dead in his tracks. He could feel the air rushing from his lungs and the gentle relief of more flowing back in never came. _Dean's scared. And not only that, Dean's _admitting_ to being scared. But how can that be? Dean is never scared; he's fearless. _That revelation alone was Sam's undoing. Because, God, if Dean was scared then how the hell was he supposed to feel? Dean had always been Sam's rock, his lifeline, his ultimate saving grace. Dean always guided Sam; his actions told Sam when to be happy or sad, told him when he should be on alert and when he could relax and have fun. What Sam felt only came from what Dean felt, and Dean had never once admitted to being scared in as long as he could remember.

The thing about Dean's rock hard emotions was that, even injured, Sam had always felt a part of Dean guiding him toward the right direction, the right choice. Sam had always pulled his strength from his older brother, and now he realized that he would have to draw his own strength this time. He just wasn't sure he could do it.

Ever so slowly Sam drew the corners of his lips into a smile, forcing himself to radiate warmth and comfort and reassurance. He reached out again with his hand, grateful that the shaking had somehow miraculously subsided and he was able to emit convincing strength as he rested it on top of Dean's shoulder, inching closer to his brother.

"I know it's going to be a bumpy road, Dean. I know you may never truly feel whole again, and that you might not be able to do everything you used to do before. I know this is totally going to suck. I'm not going to promise you that everything is going to be okay, because you and I both know that's just a load of bullshit. But I can promise you one thing, Dean. I am going to be here with you through every single shit filled day and every tear and frustration this is going to cause you."

He paused to make sure Dean was listening to him, and that he was absorbing everything Sam had to say to him. And when Sam established that Dean was hearing him he continued, inching himself even closer as Dean continued to feed off the younger man's proclamation.

"There's one thing I _can_ promise you, Dean. And this I _do_ know from personal experience. One day you're going to wake up and it's going to feel like the weight has been lifted just a fraction of an inch. And then your going to wake up the next day and it will seem even brighter. And so on and so forth, until one day you wake up and the pain is no longer there, and all that's left is a realization that life really can go on...even when you've lost something so near and dear to your heart that you think the pain may never go away - life _can_ move beyond that loss."

Dean looked over to Sam with tear filled eyes, his hands trembling like crazy as he reached one up to grab hold of the one Sam had resting on his shoulder. He locked his trembling hand onto his brother's, holding tight and never wanting to let go. "You promise?"

Sam nodded his head. "Yes, Dean. I promise."


	18. Chapter 18

**_Alright, so coming off the last couple of chapters, I really think this one leaves something to be desired. It's definitely more of a filler chapter, and somewhat more technical than the others. This is the point where I sorta wish I had a beta to run some ideas by, but then again, I'm too impatient and would very likely post the majority of my chapters before a beta had the opportunity to read them anyway. I'm the first to admit that it's not my best work, but I kept rewriting parts and it just wasn't coming together the way I wanted it, so I finally just decided to post and move on. Hope it isn't too disappointing. On the bright side, there's a part in here that I think will cheer everyone up. Dean's slowly moving out of his slump and hopefully it will show. As always, thank you so much for those totally sweet, awesome reviews. There's nothing more inciting than an inbox filled with reviews to make this humbled author want to keep writing. Thanks for reading - you all rock! And on with the story..._**

Sam had to give Dean credit. He tried; really put forth the effort to be accepting and understanding and even somewhat forgiving of Sam's unwitting ministrations when they returned to Missouri's house that afternoon. His brother truly seemed to have taken their conversation to heart - quid pro quo, this for that, 'you trust me and I'll trust you.'

Both seemed to back off just a bit from the intensity that had enveloped each of them in their own right. The constant need Sam had to hover over Dean, offering help where none was needed, imposing his opinion where none was asked seemed to dissipate along with Dean's insistence that he was fine and didn't need any help from anyone.

A calmness began to envelop Missouri's house after that. Not that the frustration receded any, but Dean seemed more compliant to receiving help and there were fewer words screamed out in anger and hatred at a flustered Sam. In a way, he maintained the same submissive attitude he'd displayed in the hospital, but as time went by, and Dean began to trust more and more, it seemed to become more of an agreeable submission rather than a moody one.

Dean finally conceded to letting Sam in when the phantom limb pain flared up, squeezing his brother's hand tightly as he closed his eyes, breathing raggedly through the pain. And when he finally released his brother's hand, Dean allowed him to make a mad dash to retrieve a single pain pill before returning to his station. Sam dispensed medications with measured caution, keeping all the bottles on the top shelf of a kitchen cabinet. Dean knew where they were, but the simple fact that they were downstairs, within easy sight of everyone in the house, meant they were no longer a threat.

In return for the trust Dean had once again begun to display in his brother, Sam stopped asking if he was okay every five minutes. And he gave Dean the opportunity to ask for things he needed and to tell him when to back off. There was no more insistence that Dean make a public appearance, and on the nights that Missouri didn't feel like cooking they now ordered food to be delivered.

A week went by and it seemed as though the Winchester brother's were well on their way to rediscovering that long lost trust that had begun to go missing long before their trek into the woods. Trust that had been slowly chipping away since their Dad had died.

They fell into a comfortable routine. Sam was always up before Dean, showered and dressed before his weary older sibling had even cracked his eyes open. As Dean began to stir, Sam would start collecting all the supplies: new gauze wraps, antibiotic cream, surgical tape, and the morning dose of medication. He'd lay it all out on the dresser in a neat little row and wait for Dean to finally climb from the bed, grudgingly swinging himself into the shower on his crutches.

Sam never went far when Dean was in the bathroom, constantly monitoring the small room for thumps and crashes. Coming to an understanding, Dean had begun calling out to Sam - 'I'm good!' or 'Just getting out' anytime he made a noise that sounded too much like he'd just fallen, and Sam had finally quit pounding on the door every five seconds to make sure his brother was okay.

Dean normally emerged from the bathroom fully clothed from the waist up and wearing only boxers or boxer briefs below and he would slump onto the bed and let Sam have at his now mostly healed stump, cleaning the wound and rewrapping it with a fresh layer of stark white gauze. And then, before he was dressed, they did the exercises Dr. Jennings had ordered. Five and ten pound weights were attached tightly to the healing stump to provide resistance as Dean stretched and moved his leg, rebuilding the muscles that seemed to have deteriorated far too quickly.

Today was different though. Today, Dean was irritable and testy. Today, he seemed frustrated by every obstacle in his way, and more than once he let out an annoyed cry when things didn't go his way. Because today, Dean had to go back to the rehab hospital for his prosthetic fitting, and he was scared of what would happen from there.

"They're going be doing a lot of work with you today. I think we can forego the exercises this morning," Sam said hesitantly, treading lightly with his brother's sensitive emotions. He'd learned a long time ago that certain mood swings meant an argument was on the horizon, and Sam was eager to head it off at the pass.

Dean shrugged sullenly. "Whatever you say. You're the boss."

Sam eyed Dean with concern, suddenly remembering what had happened after the last visit and wondering he had been too premature in scheduling a new appointment. "You're okay with this, right?"

Another shrug. "I guess?"

"Dean," Sam drew the word out, his tone warning. "Remember, you promised to talk to me. You said you'd let me in."

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

_No. "_Yeah. Just a little bit nervous. Not every day you get a new leg." He tried to dismiss the idea as funny, his attitude blase, but somewhere along the lines Dean had lost his ability to snark with the best of them and the words lost their edge before he even got them off his tongue.

Sam regarded him once again, debating if it was worth it to push it or if he would have better luck letting Dean talk to him on his own terms. He decided to give Dean some time; if he hadn't opened up by the time they were in the car Sam would try again.

"Alright. If you're sure," Sam dead panned. "You ready to go downstairs for breakfast?"

Dean nodded and reached for his jeans. "I could go for a nice hot cup of coffee right about now." He dragged the scratchy material over both legs and then braced his arms on Sam's shoulders to stand and finish pulling them up around his waist. Sam reached for the crutches, and as Dean got himself situated with those, Sam bent to roll and pin the excess material on the left pant leg. He thoroughly hated that process because it seemed to make it so much more clear that there wasn't and would never be the necessary mass of skin and bone to fill it out. _Will a prosthetic make this any easier - when we don't have to pin up this excess material?_ Sam asked himself that question, and other's like it, everyday. _Exactly how much emotional hurt and pain will go away by creating a synthetic extension of his leg?_

They arrived at the top of the stairs and Sam quickly moved into position, ready to carry the crutches and allow Dean to put his weight on his shoulders for the tenuous trip down the stairs.

"I got it man," Dean said stubbornly, not looking at Sam as he tentatively planted both crutches on the step below, right hand gripping the poles as his left arm braced for dear life on the railing.

Sam could feel a sickening flutter in his chest at the rejection and he swallowed hard before he could issue a protest. _Where the hell did that come from?_ "Dean, I don't know how safe–"

"I said I've got it, Sam." Dean answered more testily, and Sam finally realized this was a challenge. Dean was fishing for a fight, needed an outlet. Needed Sam to be the one to break first. _How far will you go before you snap?_

Sam backed off, holding in the sigh of frustration that threatened to burst out. He refused to let another fight ensue before they went to this appointment. He wasn't willing to give Dean an excuse to back out. "Whatever you say man. I'm here if you need me."

Concentrating hard, fiercely determined to not let his brief excursion back to independence fail, Dean hopped down one step and paused, taking the time yet again to position his crutches and brace himself. It was a long way down to the bottom if he fell, and would undoubtedly set his recovery back by days, if not weeks. The rational part of Dean knew it was too soon to be venturing off on his own, even if it was just down a simple set of stairs, but the irrational part of him, the _dominant_ part of him, had finally decided that he was being far too reliant on Sam. He had to take back his life, had to take back his independence. He was getting nowhere fast leaning so heavily on his little brother, and the knowledge of what they were doing this afternoon just hammered that point home.

It had long been part of Dean Winchester's MO, that the harder things were for him, the more he pushed to deal with them himself. Since the accident, he'd been too weak to deal with anything by himself, and he'd happily, albeit stubbornly, allowed Sam to take over everything for him. But no more. Today he would be fitted for a new leg; one that Sam promised was going to give him back the independence he so desperately wanted. Dean still held doubts - Sam was too trusting, too wishy-washy, somehow the kid still seemed to believe in happily-ever-afters and lights at the end of the tunnel. But either way, two legs or one, happy new life or shitty old one, Dean owed it to Sam to become independent again. He owed it to his little brother to be _Dean_ again. Unfortunately for both of them, being _Dean_ meant withholding emotions and refusing to accept necessary help.

By some sheer chance of fate Dean managed to make it to the first floor in one piece and no worse for wear, except Sam thought he very well may have skipped several heartbeats in a row when, about halfway down, Dean missed the step and teetered on the edge for several seconds, arms flailing wildly, before he managed to regain his balance. But even after that he refused Sam's assistance, belligerently declaring that he could do it on his own.

They had their breakfast, drank their coffee's, and were out the door without further incident. It occurred to Sam that what had happened on the stairs may have once again diminished Dean's self-confidence, and his silence as they ate was the older hunter's way of taking the time to rebuild the missing components.

Bobby hollered at them from his station, once again on a ladder this time to re-caulk Missouri's windows. "You boys be take care now!" He called. "Good luck!"

Both boys waved, although Sam's was more enthusiastic than Dean's, and made their way to the car parked by the curb. The next words to come out of Sam's mouth shocked him almost as they shocked Dean, who had already stopped at the passenger door as he waited for Sam to unlock the car.

"You think you might like to drive?"

Dean's head swivelled around to face Sam as his jaw dropped in disbelief. He hesitated, suddenly unsure exactly what he wanted to do. He'd spent the better part of every car ride for the last month moping and griping to himself because he couldn't drive his own car, but now that the opportunity was presenting itself he wasn't so sure any more. _What if I can't drive as well as I think I can. What if I need my left foot for something and it's not there? How weird is this going to feel?_

"Dean?" Sam tried again, attempting to snap his brother from his stupor. "Earth to Dean..."

Tentatively, Dean nodded his head and held his hand out for the keys. "I guess I'd like to give it a try," he replied, far less conviction in his voice than Sam had expected.

Sam nodded, saying nothing more. Whatever was going on with Dean he didn't want to make worse by adding insult to injury and asking if he was certain he was up for it. Dean needed to feel competent again, of that Sam was sure, and he figured Dean would never intentionally hurt his car. If he didn't feel ready, he would say something. He followed his brother to the driver's side and retrieved the crutches when Dean was safely inside, taking longer than usual to secure them in the backseat and come around to the passenger side, an unspoken understanding that Dean might need some time alone with his baby.

"How's she feel?" Sam asked as he finally settled himself into his designated seat and looked over at his brother. Dean had his hands gently circling the worn steering wheel, caressing the smooth plastic with his thumbs, two lovers reconnecting. His eyes flicked over every dash instrument as he turned the key in the ignition, mentally assessing the car for any glitches it may have picked up during his absence. For a second, his eyes fell longingly to the worn spot in the floor carpeting where his left foot had normally rested during their long cross-country drives. But the flicker of remorse was soon shoved to the back of his mind and Dean even managed to force a bit of a smile.

"It's good to be at her wheel again."

With a cautious tap of the gas pedal, Dean pulled away from the curb.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dr. Jennings greeted them in the front lobby and immediately whisked the brother's down the hall and to the gym, eager to get Dean started on his therapy. He'd heard about the suicide attempt, but pretended it had never happened, instead focusing all of his efforts into convincing Dean just how great he would feel once he was up and walking again.

He led them to one of the many work tables on the far wall and had Dean sit and roll the pants leg up. "How are you doing with your exercises?" the man asked as he began unwrapping the gauze from the stump, focusing his eyes on it as he focused his ears on Dean's answer.

"Okay."

"We upgraded from five pounds to fifteen," Sam chimed in, sitting on the table opposite Dean and leaning in to see what the doctor was doing.

"Is that so?" Dr. Jennings asked, looking pointedly up at Dean for confirmation. "So you feel as though you're improving?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Any problems? Complications?"

"No, not really." _Unless you count the obvious. _

Returning his attention to the stump, Dr. Jennings began poking and prodding the soft flesh, awaiting a reaction from his patient as he studied the healing tendencies of the remaining scar. When Dean didn't react he finally looked up with a grin. "I think we can go ahead and take a measurement of your leg, start discussing what qualities you might like to have in a prosthesis."

Dean forced a smile. "Sounds great," he replied so only Sam noticed the sarcasm in his voice.

xxxxxxxxxx

The process for fitting the prosthesis was nothing like Sam or Dean had expected, and they both focused their curiosity on every word Dr. Jennings said as he walked them through the fitting. He used a handheld scanner, running it all over Dean's residual limb as it memorized every bump and scar and angle of his leg.

Sam snorted as he watched the red lines criss-cross all over his brother's limb. Dean glared at him. "What the hell is so funny?"

"It looks like he's reading your leg with a barcode scanner," Sam chuckled. "Like you're a side of beef."

"It may seem odd," Dr. Jenning's offered. "But it's a whole lot less archaic than the old method. "Before, we would have actually made a plaster mold of your leg and then a prosthetics specialist would have had to form, by hand, a prosthetic that would fit. But now, this scanner takes a digital reading of every nuance in the shape of your leg and then we send it to a computer. Everything is done digitally and the chances of getting a perfect fit on the first try are increased significantly. Plus, the time it takes to create a prosthesis is far shorter."

Sam nodded, eagerly punching Dean in the arm. "You hear that, Dean? You're gonna be up and walking around in no time. This is so great!" The enthusiasm in his words was forced, but Sam hoped it was enough to rile his brother. Just because Dean was the only one who had voiced his displeasure at replacing his missing leg with synthetic material didn't mean Sam wasn't just as scared at the prospect. He just knew it wouldn't be fair to make Dean have to worry about his emotions when Dean just barely had himself put together. So Sam had to fake it; for the both of them.

"Yeah, just peachy," Dean replied, faking his own smile for the benefit of Sam and the doctor. His little brother was so eager for this to happen. How could he deny him that. His eyes fell to the catalogs and pamphlets at Dr. Jennings' feet, knowing that those were soon to come. On the top pamphlet was a picture of a smiling young man, about Dean's age, wearing a pair of shorts that very clearly showed off the two full leg prostheses he wore, with the caption - 'See what the revolutionary C-leg can do for you.' Dean swallowed back a thick lump forming in his throat, realizing that before long that would be him.

With the leg scan finished, Dr. Jennings crossed the room to a computer and transferred the data into it before returning to the brother's, scooping up the stack of media and setting it on the table in front of Dean. "You spoke to me about your needs and previous abilities a little bit before, but now we need to have a final discussion of what you want in this new leg."

"I want it to look like a damn leg," Dean snarled defensively, quickly shuffling through the stack of papers with disgust. "What the hell is with all this futuristic bionic shit?"

Sam pulled in a deep breath, the question not far from his own mind, but afraid of the doctor's reaction. But Dr. Jennings barely flinched. Apparently he was used to these questions, and he held up a finger as he disappeared for a few minutes and then returned, pushing a cart.

"I'll tell you what, Dean. Let's take a look at what we have here, and the pros and cons of each. You give me the time it takes to explain all this to you and then you can post judgement. How's that sound?"

Sarcasm was Dean's best defense mechanism, and he was close to throwing out yet another discerning comment when he caught Sam's eye, his little brother's desperate plea that he chill out and let the doctor have his time making his shut his mouth and reply instead with a quick nod of the head. "Let's see what you've got."

"Alright." The man searched in his cart, pulling out the first of his demonstrations; a very realistic looking leg that he handed over to Dean. "We do make a synthetic leg out of kevlar and silicone that looks about as realistic as is possible at this point. The manufacturer matches the color with your skin color, paints the toenails and the veins on, even implants real hair fibers to give the impression of a hairy leg if you like."

Dr. Jennings paused, studying Dean and Sam's reactions to the first leg he offered before continuing. Both boys seemed to be staring intently at the prosthesis, and it was clear that even Dean might be on the verge of admitting he was impressed at its realism.

"The only thing is, the more realistic we make it look the less ability we can give the limb. From everything you've told me, Dean, it sounds like you're going to be wanting something more sturdy for more activity. You need to decide what's more important to you, Dean; appearance or ability."

Dean sighed, clutching the limb tightly in his grasp as he realized his desires for normal would only be fulfilled halfway. Did he want to fight and defend normally, or would he rather look normal.

"What else you got?" he finally asked, setting the silicone leg to the side with a frustrated moan.

The man reached back into the cart, this time pulling out another prosthesis that appeared to be a complicated black tube like thing with a flat attachment for the foot. "This one here is made of a combination of carbon and plastic for a lightweight design but a very durable product. It's got a lot of spring and give to the material; you do a lot of hard running, jumping, put a ton of weight on the material, it will always bounce back. There's very little chance for breakage. Plus, the ankle is connected to an inteli-chip. It automatically adjusts to any changes in terrain to keep you standing upright."

"Just call me the 5 million dollar man, huh," Dean laughed, still forcing the humor despite the fact that his heart just wasn't in it.

"I think that one sounds like what you want," Sam broke in, taking the limb from the doctor's hands and studying it from every angle, the nerd in him finding the intelligence factor of the limb perplexing.

"So there's no chance he can have both worlds?" Sam pressed, fingering both limbs with hope.

"Well, I didn't exactly say that," Dr. Jennings hedged, grabbing for one of the pamphlets that were scattered in front of Dean. "I wouldn't recommend you doing strenuous, rigorous activity with the silicone limbs. From what you've told me about your previous activity, I'd be surprised if you didn't end up tearing the material. But you do have the option of having two separate legs made; one for cosmetic purposes and one for practical purposes."

Sam smiled, encouraged once again by that prospect. "See, Dean. We can make this work. You can have both."

"That's...great," Dean pushed out, still not convinced that this was even something he wanted, pushing back the niggling feeling that maybe it was. _Why don't you just drop me off at a cabin in the woods somewhere out of the way and leave me there. Then we don't have to deal with any of this. _"But it's too much money. We can't afford it."

Pursing his lips, Sam looked from Dean to the legs and back to his brother again. Clearly, Dean was martyring himself again. He could never put himself first. But if Sam looked hard. Deep. If he really searched, he could see just a hint of hope and desire in his brother's stubborn features. And that was enough.

"Dean, we'll figure something out. We can make this work. If you want both of them, then you'll have both of them."

Nudging his chin in the direction of the doctor, Dean addressed him firmly. "I think my brother and I need a few minutes to ourselves. Do you mind?"

"Of course not," Dr. Jennings replied, already standing and preparing to remove himself from the situation. "Just call me when you're ready."

"Dean, what's this all about?" Sam demanded when the doctor was out of earshot. "You deserve to have whatever you need to make this right. If you want to legs, you get two legs."

"It's not about what I want," Dean insisted. "I don't _want_ either one of them. I want _my_ leg back. But you and I both know that's never going to happen, and this isn't as simple as just grabbing the thing, putting it on some bogus insurance card, and taking off. Did you even look at the prices of those things? We simply can't afford two. We can't even afford one, Sam. It's alright; I don't need one. I'll figure something out."

Sam's mouth dropped open in complete and utter shock at what Dean was saying. "You can't mean that," he spat angrily. "I won't let you do this to yourself this time, Dean. You don't get to be a martyr this time."

"Sam, please..."

"No, Dean. Not this time. You need this, Dean. And this time you come first. Whatever it takes; I'll work five jobs if I have to, take out a ton of loans, hell I'll rob a bank if that's what it takes, Dean. But you will have a new leg - both of them. And I'm not taking no for an answer."


	19. Chapter 19

**_Hi all! I am once again humbled by your awesome replies and words of encouragement. I can never tell you just how rewarding it is to have so many wonderful readers! As for the next several chapters, I'm going to add in a general disclaimer. I am no expert on matters of the medical variety, and the vast majority of what I write comes from second hand information given to me from my nurse mother and the multitude of websites I scourge to get my details. I am simply fueled by my own curiosity and a desire to give the best story possible to my loyal readers. Anything that is inaccurate can be chalked up either to poetic license or lack of information; however the majority of the mistakes can be blamed on the latter. Again, thanks so much for sticking with this. Hope you enjoy the next installment!_**

Looking down at his shaking hands, Dean finally crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits as inconspicuously as he could, desperately trying to hide his nervousness as he waited for Dr. Jennings to reappear. He'd been jumpy since early afternoon the previous day when he had finally allowed Sam to convince him that he deserved both legs and had placed his 'order' with the prosthetist. The first leg, the high tech carbon one, was scheduled to be finished by mid-afternoon the next day and Dean had made an appointment for four o'clock to have his first fitting. It was now almost four thirty and he was more nervous than ever as he waited for Dr. Jennings to gather the equipment. Dean chanced a glance to Sam, noting his brother's own signs of nervousness as the younger man's knee bounced in quarter time, biting down hard on his lip.

"Think this will work?" Dean asked, clearing his throat of the hoarseness that he hadn't expected,. He stifled a yawn, annoyed at his body's inability to sleep the night before. _Great, _now_ I'm tired._

"Of course," Sam replied, a little too quickly for his liking. "It has to." Studying his brother closely, noting the dark circles under his eyes, Dean decided that Sam probably hadn't gotten much more sleep that he had the previous night.

"You nervous?" Sam asked.

"No," Dean lied. "You?"

"Nope."

An uncomfortable silence filled the air as the boys seemed to have run out of things to talk about. Dean stared straight ahead, his eyes glued to the spot he had last seen Dr. Jennings, mind jumping back and forth as to whether he wanted the man to appear or not appear. Sam looked around, people-watching and studying the patients in the room. There was a vast array of patients there, with many different levels of injuries and at many different stages of recovery. His focus wavered over a young lady strapped into a wheelchair, her unsteady hands slowly stacking colored cones as her therapist urged her on. His eyes then flicked to an older man, in his early to mid seventies, also sitting in a wheelchair as he forced his stroke affected leg muscles to kick at a beachball. Finally, Sam's gaze fell on a teenage boy balancing himself on a set of parallel bars as he slowly took step after step on his prosthetic leg. He couldn't help but continue to stare, his curious mind drinking up every drop of information the boy provided.

His prosthetic went all the way to the thigh, incorporating a very high tech knee into the mix, and Sam found himself mesmerized at the ease to which the boy seemed to move. _That will be Dean soon. After today..._ Sam looked back over to Dean, wondering if his brother had noticed the kid. He nudged Dean in the side to get his attention and motioned for him to look. Dean, however, seemed less than impressed, and he stared more through than at the kid at the bars.

"Yeah, so he's walking." Dean stated flatly, returning his nervous gaze to the door Dr. Jennings had disappeared through.

"That doesn't give you hope?" Sam prompted. "It doesn't make you think that someday you will-"

"Will what, Sam? Manage to swing myself across a set of bars with my arms? Come on, man, look at him. He's barely moving the leg. I need more, Sam. I need my complete mobility back."

"Yeah, well you lost less than he did. You've still got your knee and everything. It will probably be a whole lot easier for you. I bet Dr. Jennings will have you up and walking by the end of the day." It amazed Sam at the degree of difference to which the two of them saw the same picture. To Sam, the boy was improving - a miracle of modern medicine; to Dean, he was still a cripple, hobbling along on a man-made contraption that could never be anywhere near the perfection of the human body.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, right Sam. And I'll be competing in the triathalon by the end of the week. ...come on, man, be realistic."

"I am being realistic," Sam protested. "I'm trying at least. You're not being very accepting of it though."

"It's hard to be so accepting of something that's so messed up, Sam. It's my _leg_; a part of my _body_, Sam. And it was just taken from me. How does something like that happen?"

Sam's shoulders slumped as he noted the life draining once again from his brother's eyes.

"And now, I have to learn how to walk all over again, only this time they're going to strap a piece of metal to my leg in order for me to do that. I'm sorry, Sam. I'm trying here; I really am. But this is just too fucked up for even you to understand."

"I wish I could," Sam replied quietly, head bowed as he began studying his shoelaces with all-important intensity. "I really wish I knew what was going on with you."

"No, Sam, you don't," Dean growled firmly, a sense of fear hidden behind his fast uttered words. "Don't you dare say that; don't you dare even think that. Because the only way you could know what this is like is for you to have experienced t yourself. And I couldn't deal with that, Sammy. The only thing worse than me being in this situation would be seeing _you_ in the same sinking boat."

"Now you know how I feel, Dean," Sam admitted, wincing as he realized he was owning up to something he was certain Dean wouldn't want to hear. But it was too late to turn back now, and he pressed forward instead. "This is pure hell for me, Dean. Seeing you like...like this. Watching you suffer and not having a clue how to help you." _Knowing this whole thing is all my fault._

"You've done enough," Dean assured his brother. He felt a twitch in his hand and realized he was cautiously suppressing the urge to move it to Sam's shoulder, to comfort the drowning young man; wishing he was strong enough not to fight the symbol of affection. "Just being here, Sam. Sticking by me through this. That's enough."

_I ran before, Dean. I haven't stuck by you like I should have. I'm scum._ "There's gotta be more I can do," Sam insisted.

Dean looked back to the door, fervently wishing that Dr. Jennings would reappear and rescue him from this chick-flick moment. Luck, however, was not with him. "You have to let me do the rest, Sam. I have to take control of my own life now; my own destiny. No amount of you _wanting_ me to be okay with this is going to make it true for me, so you're just gonna have to back off and let me accept this in my own time." He paused, wondering what he could say to calm Sam. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Sam slowly raised his head. "Yeah, I guess. Thanks...for that."

Dean nodded, the only form of acknowledgment he could muster as he considered the source. He desperately wanted to reassure Sam that he wasn't here for him; but rather, that he'd come for himself. But he still wasn't sure to what extent that was true, and the words just wouldn't form on his lips. He'd never lied to Sam - omitted truths, sure, but never flat out lies.

Finally salvation came and Dean sealed his mouth completely as he watched Dr. Jennings come through the door with the first of the two legs they were making, the sleek black carbon body shining dauntingly from the doctor's hold. Although, which was the lesser of the two evils - the too girly conversation of the ominous leg - Dean couldn't be sure. But he sat up straighter, nudging Sam to do the same as Dr. Jennings closed the distance between himself and the brothers.

"I'm sorry about the wait," Dr. Jennings apologized, pulling up a chair and sitting directly in front of Dean. "I got a phone call when I was in my office, and I couldn't get away."

"It's fine," Dean answered, his eyes locking on the prosthetic as his stomach once again began doing flip-flops and somersaults. _God, I think I'm going to be sick_, he worried, twisting his arm unnaturally so that he could clamp his hand over his mouth yet make it look like he was deep in thought instead of about ready to hurl chunks.

Sam's eyes widened at the sight of the new leg, his own stomach churning a little as he fought an internal battle over the excitement of the technology versus the sickening feeling that this was the final link in the all too surreal facts of his brother's new life. He leaned forward, all too aware that Dean very likely wouldn't be listening to the montage Dr. Jennings was about to give, and prepared to do the listening for the both of them.

"Well, here it is," the prosthetist announced proudly, holding the leg out to his patient. He hadn't been expecting Dean to crack a smile, but seeing the green, nauseous reflection in Dean's complexion made him frown. He debated; say something to Dean or continue as though he hadn't noticed, and finally settled on the latter. In the short time he'd known the young man he knew better than to force him to open up against his will.

"So here," he began, pointing to the top eight inches of the prosthesis, this portion a large shell of fiberglass and carbon, "is what we call the socket - suction socket to be precise. This is where your residual limb will sit; it's molded to the exact shape of your leg, and is held in place with a negative pressure suction grip so there will be no bulky straps to get in your way."

"It really stays on that way?" Sam asked, unable to hide the awe in his voice. He chose not to look at Dean, knowing the older man would be rolling his eyes at him for his 'geekiness.'

Dr. Jennings nodded his head, encouraged that he was at least getting interaction from the brother; now if only he could suck Dean in somehow. Half the battle was winning over the patient, and Dr. Jennings hadn't achieved that success yet. But for now, he had questions to answer.

"Miracle of modern science," Dr. Jennings replied lightly. "You'll see when Dean tries it."

"That's amazing," Sam marveled, reaching out to grab for the leg, turning it over and over in his hands as he studied the technology. "So what else does it do?"

_Great. Now my new leg is a puppy._ _Sit. Roll over. Beg. _Dean swallowed down a lump in his throat before looking at Sam, imploring his little brother to stop with the techno talk and chill out on the excitement factor. _This is nothing to be excited about._

To his credit, Sam noted the discomfort Dean was showing, and clamped his mouth shut, handing the leg back to the doctor so he could continue with his explanation.

Dr. Jennings moved on, sliding his hand down the carbon tube that connected the socket to the foot and ankle component. "You've got shock absorbers in the ankle section as well as a calibrated alignment control feature that allows the ankle to automatically sense when you're going up or down stairs, changing terrain, sitting or standing, etcetera. It will change the angle it sits at based on your position."

"Wow...cool," Sam uttered before he could stop himself, more than a little impressed at the abilities of the computerized leg. But when Dean shot him a killer look he immediately shut up again.

However, even Dean had to admit he was drawn in by the components of the leg, and if it had been for anyone other than himself he might even have allowed himself to be excited about it. But there was still no mistaking the fact that, impressive or not, it still didn't even come close to comparing to having his own _real_ leg back. _Damn it, this sucks. _

"So, do you think you're ready to give this a try?" Dr. Jennings asked, inching closer to Dean as he collected the final components to the fitting.

_Shitshitshit. He wants to do this _now? "I didn't expect to get to try it on today," Dean stalled. I just thought-"

"Oh, come on, Dean, you knew why we were coming here today," Sam interrupted, calling him on his bull.

"Sam-" Dean hissed desperately. _God, don't you know when to shut up?!_

"Just try the damn thing on, Dean!"

"Sam, I ca-" Dean stopped, seeing the look of desperation in his little brother's eyes. _Damn, the kid's good. Does he even realize just how much pull those stupid eyes have?_ "Alright. Fine," he sighed. "Let's get this show on the road."

Sam tried hard not to smile too wide, not to celebrate too noticeably, as he leaned back a bit, waiting for Dr. Jennings to get Dean ready. He soaked up every bit of knowledge the prosthetist had to impart, knowing he'd be helping Dean later.

First, the man pulled out what looked like a tube sock, sans the toe seam, and waved it at Dean. "Alright, Dean, let's roll up your pant leg," he prompted, waiting for the hesitant young man to do as was asked of him and then handing him the liner. "Put this on. You want to make sure there are no wrinkles or bulges - those can create rubs and sores if you're not careful."

Dean nodded, pulling the liner over his stump and then waiting for the next instruction. He took the foam sleeve Dr. Jennings provided him, and put it on over the liner, struggling a little to get it on all the way. "It's tight," Dean complained.

"It's supposed to be," Dr. Jennings corrected. If all this stuff was loose, the suctioning process of the socket would all be in vain. Now, let's don that leg. Are you ready?"

Taking a deep breath, studying the leg one last time, Dean finally nodded his consent. "Let's do this."

Sam sat with baited breath as he watched the doctor press Dean's stump firmly into the fiberglass socket, wincing with Dean when he felt the pressure, the scar still somewhat tender. "You alright, man?" Sam asked, suddenly wondering if he'd pushed Dean too fast too soon.

"Yeah, I'm good," Dean pinched out through gritted teeth. "I'm..." he paused as the pressure finally ceased and he could breathe normally again. "I'm good, Sam."

"You're sure?"

"Positive. It just pinched for a minute. What now?" He looked back to Dr. Jennings, once again fighting an internal struggle between complete fear and mild enthusiasm.

"Let's see if we can get you standing," the man encouraged, clapping his hands together excitedly. "Are you ready to try?"

Dean nodded, grabbing for his crutches and preparing himself mentally for the task. As Dr. Jennings talked Dean through the first move, Sam stood, ready to provide his assistance where it was needed.

On the doctor's count of three, Dean pushed himself up, initially placing his weight only on his real leg as he waited for Dr. Jennings' next order. The man reached out to steady Dean, hands looped around his waist before suggesting he try to bear a little weight on the prosthesis.

Dean bit his lip, psyching himself up for his first step and finally shifting his weight enough to put pressure on the prosthetic. And he immediately went down, the pain was so intense. He dropped his crutches as his knees gave way, and if it weren't for Sam's quick reaction, grabbing him under the armpits and slowly lowering him back to the table, Dean would have been on the floor.

"What the hell?" Sam demanded, shooting daggers at the doctor who was already on his knees messing with the prosthesis. _He's fragile; you fuck up now, you may never get him back up again. _

Dr. Jennings already had the prosthesis off Dean's leg and was adjusting one of the silicone pads inside. "Sometimes we don't have the protective pads just right, Dean. If the socket hits the wrong part of your leg it _will_ be painful. But that's why we do the fittings first, and then we teach you how to distribute your weight evenly so you don't end up with these problems in the future. I assure you, Dean, this is all completely normal."

Dean eyed the man suspiciously. _I don't want to go through this again. I didn't even want to do this in the first place. _"So it'll work this time?" Dean asked skeptically, as he once again tried to get used to the feel of the prosthetic on his leg. Sitting, it wasn't altogether uncomfortable, but the pressure was great enough that it was mildly obnoxious. Maybe something he would get used to eventually, but would likely remain a constant; almost as a reminder that he no longer had a normal leg that he could simply forget about.

"I can't guarantee it'll work this time, but we'll keep trying until we get it right." Dr. Jennings insisted, motioning for Dean once again to stand.

He gave his consent, preparing once more to raise himself up, and this time when Dean put pressure on his leg it was just that, pressure. He froze, too terrified to move, to afraid to believe he was actually standing again.

"Dean, that's it," Sam exclaimed, backing off just a bit from his too close hover. "You're standing."

"Do you think you want to try taking a step?" Dr. Jennings asked.

Shaking his head quickly, Dean braced himself to sit back down before either Sam or the doctor could protest. It felt too weird, too...false. He felt like there was a log tied to his leg and just hanging off it. It wasn't real; he couldn't deal with it.

"Dean?" Sam asked, sitting beside his brother, hand hovering just behind Dean's back as he debated whether or not it was a good idea to finish the gesture of comfort. He finally did, hand resting gently against Dean's shoulder as he prompted the man again. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Dean, please. Talk to me."

Silence followed; all too quiet and yet deafening at the same time. Sam waited, trusting that Dean would speak up in his own time.

"It just isn't right," he finally said softly, dropping his head heavily into his open hands. "It doesn't feel right. It doesn't look right. It simply _isn't_ fucking right, Sam. I can't _do_ this."

"Dean, please."

"No, Sam, you don't get to 'please' me anymore. I said I don't want to do this. You don't know what the damn thing feels like. It won't get any better. I'm never going to be able to walk normally. This whole thing is just bullshit, Sam."

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean, it's not bullshit. It's life - your life, and the only way you're going to get better is if you allow yourself to get better. You keep pushing and resisting like you are and it won't get any easier. You said it yourself, Dean, you have to make your own destiny."

The words seemed to barely make a dent as Dean began prying the leg off, unsure of the best way to remove the intrusion on his person. Dr. Jennings silently knelt down, taking the doffing process into his own hands as he gently removed the layers of equipment, all the while feeling the gears turning in his own mind. He had an idea, something that just might make Dean change his mind about the entire process.

"Sam, can you come help me take these items back to my office?" Dr. Jennings asked, scooping up what he could carry and purposely leaving another couple for Sam to collect. "Dean, we'll be right back."

He waited until they were out of the gym before he said anything to Sam, and even then he treaded lightly, unsure of how this clearly protective brother would feel about conspiring against his stubborn counterpart. But in the end, Sam was in it wholeheartedly, and together they were convinced that this plan would work. Not because it was fail proof, but because it _had _to work. There wouldn't be another chance after this.


	20. Chapter 20

**_Alright, now with the plan. I hope it meets with everyone's approval. Once again, you guys are all totally cool with all your sweet reviews. I get all giddy inside everytime I see a new review in my in-box. Thanks so for being so encouraging with this story. Everything you have to say is totally appreciated. Thanks so much - here's the next chapter..._**

Dean grumbled and groused noisily as he followed Sam and Bobby, the two men in front of him stubbornly refusing to turn around and acknowledge him. They knew Dean would follow blindly, pissed as hell, but faithfully if he had no other choice; but the minute they turned and recognized Dean's reluctance to follow them, they risked losing the battle. So they continued forward, looking straight ahead at the large, round, coliseum looking building that loomed in front of them, leading Dean to his future.

"You really think this is going to work?" Bobby whispered to Sam, keeping his voice down in case Dean was close enough to hear him.

"God, I hope so," Sam answered, chancing a look behind him as he gripped the door handle and opened the wide glass door, holding it open for Bobby and then Dean. He studied his brother as he watched the man hobble his way into the building, noting the blankness in his face, the lack of sparkle in his eyes. The absence of a leg seemed particularly noticeable today in light of Dean's stalwart refusal to put on the new prosthesis again, and Sam's chest had been twisted into a perpetual knot ever since then. _God do I hope this works. Because if it doesn't...dammit, it just has to work. _

Sam had spent another restless night worrying about his brother, running over every possibility of how this plan could go down. Initially, he'd been so excited to try Dr. Jennings suggestion, and had wasted no time pulling Bobby aside to fill him in on the plan. It wasn't that he needed Bobby to follow through, but Sam's emotional stability was about drained and he'd realized he needed Bobby's support. Dean's emotions were so raw, so completely unchecked, and truth be told, today's little excursion really could go either way. Sam didn't think he could handle it if this didn't work.

"So what the hell is this all about, Sam?" Dean accused, standing in the massive lobby of the university basketball stadium, listening to the echos of balls bouncing in the gym.

"Just thought we needed some fun," Sam fibbed, spouting out the story he'd contrived in the middle of the night, fingers crossed behind his back as he hoped Dean would buy it. "When I was at Stanford Jess and I used to go sit in on the pick-up games. We used to love it; I just thought you might get something out of it, too." _Please buy it, Dean. Please._ He'd used the Jess card on purpose, counterbalancing the mention of Stanford as well as hoping Dean might give Sam what he wanted because of it.

To Sam's dismay Dean barely seemed to even notice the bogus explanation. _All those sleepless hours wasted on formulating a story he didn't even hear. _But it didn't mean Dean didn't accept that there was an explanation, and the mere sound of Sam's voice seemed to propel him robot-like towards the basketball court.

"I've never really gotten into sports," Dean glowered instead, making no indication that he'd heard Sam say anything about Jess or Stanford. "Really not my thing."

"It's not about the game, Dean. It's about the mindlessness of it all. It's something to focus on so you're not focusing so intently on your... on everything else." Sam had to catch himself just seconds before mentioning Dean's leg specifically.

Dean scoffed, but continued to move forward towards the door Bobby was holding open for him. Sam's look of desperation as he followed behind made Bobby's heart sink, and he gave the kid a reassuring squeeze to the shoulder as he passed. "This will work," he assured, forcing the confidence to seep through into his words.

Sam pursed his lips as he replied with a grim nod. _God, the doctor had better be right about this. _

They entered at the top of the first tier of seats and Sam stood back, allowing Dean to lead the way, unsure how comfortable the older man would feel going down the stairs, and surprised when Dean obliged to go first. Dean actually surprised him, attempting four of the long, shallow steps before coming to a stop in front of an empty row and allowing Sam and Bobby to once again go in front. The rows were narrow, making all three men have to turn sideways to get in. Bobby stopped at the third seat in so that Dean could have the end.

"I think they're about to start," Sam enthused, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the top of his knees as he studied the players. On the court in front of them the multitude of basketballs were slowly being thrown to the sidelines as the two teams regrouped to prepare for the start of the game.

Looking around, taking in the sight of the diversified teams and the small turnout of spectators, Dean was immediately suspicious. This wasn't a college basketball game as he'd initially been led to believe; with players ranging in age from late teens to early forties and a stadium seating at least sixty thousand people barely holding a few hundred, he'd be hard pressed to even call it a legitimate game. Both teams wore colored t-shirts, one team powder blue and the other forest green, with the names of local businesses plastered across their chests and large rubberized numbers on their backs. _Some sort of adult league_, he assumed. _So why the hell are we here?_

"I thought this was a college game," Dean accused, slouching down in his seat. "You lied to me, Sam."

"No, I didn't. I said we were going to a game at the university stadium. I never said it was a university game."

Potato - potato," Dean replied, pronouncing the word in two ways; the first with a short 'a' and the second with a long 'a.'

"Clearly they're not," Sam rebutted, motioning for Bobby to help him out with this one. "Because we're here at the university stadium and this is hardly the college team."

"'Fraid your brother's got you on that one," Bobby added, shrugging his shoulders in apathetic apology.

Dean shut up; too annoyed to argue, too stubborn to apologize. He crossed his arms in silent defiance across his chest and stared blankly ahead. Sam, too, looked ahead as he searched for the reason they were here; number 24 on the green-shirted team. The game was just getting underway, and Sam searched the bench first before turning to the five members of the team already on the floor, finally locating the man in that smaller crew. He hadn't expected the man to be a starter, although he really shouldn't have been surprised considering the conviction in Dr. Jennings' voice when he assured Sam that this plan would work.

The player was young, mid to late twenties at the most, and clearly athletic -just like Dean. His muscular biceps pulled at the cotton t-shirt, stretching it to within an inch of its capacity. As had been requested by Dr. Jennings, he'd worn a pair of nylon sport pants that covered the top of a pair of white and black basketball shoes, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

With a nudge of the chin, Sam directed Bobby's gaze to the player. Seeing the reason for their trip, Bobby looked back at Sam with an encouraging smile, their eyes and body language holding silent conversation.

_You know how you're gonna tell him yet?_

_Not a clue - got any ideas?_

_He's your brother, Sam, he'll take it better from you._

The first fifteen minutes were played without a single word being exchanged between the three men. Sam alternated between number 24 and his brother, desperately trying to figure out a way to point the athletic man out to Dean without Dean questioning him. 'That number 24 sure is a good player,' really didn't seem like a reasonable conversation starter unless Sam was prepared for Dean to snark back with 'Why, you got a crush on 'im Sammy?' And just flat out ordering Dean to keep his eyes on the single player risked too many questions dipped in suspicion. But just when Sam was beginning to think he'd never work up the nerve to say something to Dean he saw his perfect opportunity, cheering wildly when number 24 made a mad dash up the court, dodging his guards to make a perfect slam dunk.

"That was totally awesome! Did you see that?" Sam cried out, gently shoving Dean's shoulder to make sure his brother was watching. He was taken completely aback when he saw that Dean was not only watching, but was actually on the edge of his seat, thoroughly seeming to be into the game.

"Yeah, yeah, I saw," Dean replied, forcing a facade of irritation. Sam didn't care; actions far outweighed the vocalizations. Dean was enjoying himself.

Sam sat back, relaxing for the rest of the game. This would be easier than he'd expected. Dean was already coming back to him, and the plan was falling into place perfectly. As long as part two went as smoothly as part one, they were well on their way.

When the game ended, the green team had won by eleven points, 77-66, and number 24 had easily scored at least a third of those points. Looking at Dean, Sam was relieved to see a smile on his brother's face; a real, genuine, light up the room smile. A smile that came from the adrenaline rush feeling of watching 'your' team win the big game. Sam couldn't explain why, or how, Dean had managed to form a bond to a team he'd never seen before in a game he'd never 'gotten into' before, but Sam was a wise man. He knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, and for this, he would chalk it up to magic working at it's best.

"Good game, huh?" Sam pressed.

"Yeah. Real good."

"You were right about the mindless entertainment," Bobby added, patting Sam on the shoulder as they collected their stuff to be leaving. "Great idea. Just what we needed."

Sam looked back to Bobby. 'Thanks,' he mouthed, grateful that the man was adding to the facade. He'd been a little worried that Bobby's silence through the game might have tipped Dean off. Bobby was a tried and true Nascar fan, with a little bit of pro-football mixed in. He'd never really been a fan of basketball, and Sam had feared Dean might remember that.

"It was just nice to get out of the house for a while," Sam continued, following Dean's slow assent up the stairs and out the gym, immediately reverting to protective mode at his concern over Dean's instability. He was just glad Dean couldn't see his over-protection in action.

Once in the lobby, Sam immediately began flicking his eyes all over the lobby, scanning frantically until they finally rested on number 24, slowly making his way through the crowd.

"Hey, Dean, Bobby, there's one of the players. Let's go congratulate him on his win."

Dean shot him a look that clearly said 'chill dude,' before shrugging and continuing to the door, away from Sam's point of desire. "Naw, man, this was fun but I'm ready to go home."

"Aw, come on, Dean. He played a great game. We should acknowledge that."

"Sam, he's not Michael Jordan for god's sake. It was just a community league game. No big deal."

"Dean, please," Sam continued to beg, annoyed at himself for how childish his voice sounded. But Dean was about to ruin the plan, and he wasn't about to let him.

"If it's that important to your brother, just let the kid say hi," Bobby finally insisted, playing along with the plot by rolling his eyes at Dean. "He's got a hero complex - just let it play out."

Finally shrugging, Dean turned and followed Sam and Bobby through the lobby to the player, hanging back embarrassedly as Sam confronted the man.

"Hi," Sam greeted, stopping his prey in his tracks. "We were just watching the game. I just wanted to tell you what a great job you guys did. That slam dunk was awesome..."

Dean didn't know how it happened; his head was spinning far too fast for him to link on to anything. Somewhere in between Sam introducing him and Bobby to Joe Rombardi, number 24, and now, Dean found himself down in the locker room as Joe and Sam continued their conversation while the player changed. And it was at that moment that he realized he'd been set-up.

Watching Sam staring intently, leg bouncing nervously, at the guy as he pulled his shirt off had Dean imagining all sorts of gay jabs to throw at his brother when they made it back to the car. But every one of those thoughts went out the window when Joe pulled down his pants, nothing but boxers covering his waist and the top socket of his full leg prosthetic. All at once everything rushed at Dean in one gigantic wave; Sam's continued enthusiasm over one guy on the floor - he'd never once said a word about any of the other players, the timely entrance of Joe Rombardi into the lobby just as they were taking off, the flash of recognition as his eyes fell to Dean's missing leg without a hint of the fear or repulsion Dean was used to encountering, the odd way that a simple conversation between strangers had led to a personal invitation to come to the locker rooms. Everything fit into place; and Dean was beyond pissed off.

"I can't believe you did this to me, Sam," Dean snarled, grabbing for his crutches to do what he'd become an expert at for the last couple of months; storming out. He didn't wait for an explanation as he scrambled to right himself, noting not for the first time that the angrier he was the less coordination he seemed to have.

"Dean wait," Sam implored, jumping up after his brother and grabbing him on the shoulder to stop his retreat. "Please, just stop...listen."

"Why should I Sam? Why the hell should I listen to anything that comes out of your lying mouth? You set me up!"

"No, Dean, I didn't. Please, just..."

"You _set_ me _up_," Dean repeated incredulously. "I can't believe this."

"It was the only way I could get you to listen to reason," Sam insisted, not relinquishing his hold on Dean's shoulder despite his brother's infuriated attempts to shake free. "It was the only way I could get you to see how your life can truly be. Please, Dean, just sit down and hear me out."

Once again, Dean tried to free himself from Sam's grasp, jerking violently out of the tight hold. He got two steps before Joe was in front of him, effectively blocking his exit from the locker room.

"I know what you're going through," Rombardi stated matter-of-factly. "But you can't let the anger win."

"You don't know a damn thing," Dean snarled, glaring at the man with sheer hatred. "You're nothing but a pawn in my brother's master plan to fuck with me."

"Dean!" Sam cried in disbelief. _How can he say that? How can he even think that?_

Joe's hand shot up to silence Sam, his gaze never wavering from Dean. "I've been where you are, Dean; I've felt the pain and the desperation, and the complete and utter devastation. And I learned to overcome it. You will too."

"My life is over," Spat Dean. "Everything I've ever known; everything I am–"

"You think I didn't feel the same thing when I got hurt?" came the rebuttal. "I was a soldier, Dean. Career army, 1st lieutenant in the Army Rangers; over in Iraq when my convoy got hit by a roadside bomb and blew my whole leg clear off."

That stopped Dean in his tracks as he realized the guy was maybe the closest he would encounter to knowing exactly what he was going through. He was a soldier. A _hunter_. Maybe he didn't hunt the same things Dean did, but he knew what it was like to have people relying on him for their lives. He finally relaxed a bit, standing down from his desired escape, but he still remained standing, shoulders tense. He wasn't quite ready to admit he would listen.

"Let me ask you this, Dean, before anything else. Your brother got you here; you watched the game, met me, came down here. At what point in this whole thing did you realize that one of my legs was a prosthetic?"

_Are you serious? You're really asking me this?_ Dean looked at Rombardi in disbelief, refusing to answer.

"I'm serious, Dean," the man insisted. "Because that's your future. You're in a better position even than me to be as normal as possible; you've still got your knee and your upper leg, so if I can pull it off you sure as hell can. Now tell me, when did you know?"

"Alright, fine," Dean groused. "I didn't know until I saw it. I had no clue."

"And even knowing that, _knowing _that I just played an entire basketball game in front of your very own eyes, beating out people with two good legs and no shrapnel anywhere in their bodies, you're still going to stand here in front of me and tell me that my life isn't completely normal. You're going to tall me that _you_ can't have a completely normal life."

Dean shook his head. "It's still not the same. It's still something that I have to rely on, something that I have to take off at night and put on in the morning-"

"What about people with glasses, Dean? Or contacts? Are you saying that just because millions of people around the world rely on something to help them see that they aren't normal?"

"That's different!" Dean protested.

"How? How is it different?"

"It just is!" Dean ran his fingers through his short hair in desperation, his face turning flush as he ran protest after protest through his mind, quickly realizing just how much his arguments were deflating. _Damn it, Sam. You had to do this._ Glaring intently, Dean looked over to where Sam and Bobby stood, silent through the entire confrontation between Dean and Joe Rombardi. There was no reason for either of them to have been in the conversation; it was playing out exactly as Sam had hoped it would.

"Dean, you have to stop thinking this way," Joe insisted, frustration noticeable in his tone. He sighed. "Look, it took me months to come even close to accepting what had happened to me, so I can't fault you for being so resistant. But I'm here to tell you, man, the only way you're gonna get through this is to keep an open mind, try new things, different things, know that everything is going to get better as the days go on. You have to accept the prosthesis as being an extension of you rather than a burden. You're only as different as _you_ think you are, man."

"Yeah - me and just about every other person on the street who chooses to stare at me and talk about me behind my back," Dean remarked glumly. "You've been me; you _are_ me. How can you sit here and tell me that people don't treat you different because of your leg?"

Rombardi shrugged nonchalantly. "I just figure those people aren't worth my time. It's no different than anything else in life, Dean. It's like people who decide they don't like you because you're from the south, or because you're going bald, or your teeth stick out funny. Everyone has prejudices, man. And those are the people who you avoid. The thing is, they're more likely to ignore your differences when you ignore your own differences. It's all about confidence, man, it's about heart."

Dean stayed quiet, his mind working overtime. He'd never been a man to admit he was wrong, never been good at apologizing. And how the hell do you go from stubborn and pig-headed to open-minded and compliant over night?

"This isn't going to happen over night, Dean..."

_Damn, the guy reads minds now, too?_

"Look, all I'm asking...all your brother and your friends and the doctors are asking...is that you agree to give it a go. Promise to give it your best try - promise to believe in yourself."

_Oh, is that all? And would you like me to drive my car off a cliff while I'm at it?_

"Dean, are you going to answer the guy?" Sam's voice finally broke the silence in the air, bringing Dean's head up quickly as he looked from face to face.

"I'm not promising much," Dean finally answered, drawing Sam's mouth into a slight twitch of a smile, his slumped shoulders finally straightening.

"But..." his little brother prompted.

"Alright, one week, Sam. One Week. But if I don't see any improvements by then I'm through - you can take me out into the woods somewhere and hide me there. You got it?"

For a minute Sam seemed torn; a week wasn't a very long time, and his definition of improvement was far off from Dean's. But it was something. And he figured that if he could get a week out of Dean today, by next Saturday he might even get him to agree to a month. This was definitely a start. "Yeah, Dean. I've got it. We can work with that.

"And we can go now? Or do you have another surprise to spring on me?"

"No, we can go. We're done here."

With an abrupt nod, Dean started for the door once again. This time no one tried to stop him and that gave him the freedom he needed. "Hey Joe," he called as he reached the doorway and turned around.

The athlete turned, giving Dean his undivided attention. "Yeah?"

"Just, um...thanks."

Joe's face broke into a wide smile. "Hey no problem, man. Had someone do the same for me. You just take care of yourself - get back on those feet."

Dean nodded and returned to his retreat from the locker room, but was stopped when this time Joe called out his name. He turned.

"Maybe we'll see you on the basketball court one of these days, yeah?"

"Ha! Yeah, right," Dean scoffed. And he finally made his exit, chuckling to himself as Sam and Bobby followed him back to the car. _Sure thing dude. Me on a basketball court - yeah right. And the demon's really Mother Theresa._


	21. Chapter 21

**_Alright, so I figured some of you wanted this to be part of the story, and it really seemed to fit better than I had originally intended. So here you go - enjoy. And just want to make yet another shout out to all my wonderful readers. Whether you review or just lurk I appreciate the fact that you are all so eager to read my story. Thanks so much. On with the story..._**

A deep breath and a shaky hand running through his hair finalized Sam's efforts to calm his emotions before he pulled the woolen black mask over his face and checked the clip in his gun one final time. He could feel his spare weapon held securely in the ankle strap, but its presence provided him no additional comfort as he hid in the shadows of the alley, waiting for the time to change to 5:01.

The ticking of his watch seemed to get louder as he waited, the seconds seeming to go by at an impossibly slow pace, mocking him as each slow click taunted its failure to make it the right time. The minute finally changed and he could hear the locks on the front door being turned. The bank was now closed.

In a swift movement, Sam grabbed at the clutch of exposed wires before him, clipping the ones to the alarm system as Bobby clipped the phone lines a few feet away, ensuring that the police could not be called.

Sam looked to Bobby, motioning the man closer to him as he pried open the door he had propped earlier and the two men stealthily crept into the basement entrance, being careful to leave the door propped open behind them. The made their way through the darkened hallways, paths only illuminated by the emergency lights that remained on regardless of additional power sources. It took only three minutes to arrive at the top of the stairs and Sam took yet another breath to calm his jittery nerves, the knowledge that he was only inches away from committing a heinous crime for the love of his brother weighing heavily on his conscience.

He couldn't believe it had come to this; couldn't believe they were so fraught for money that he was willing to put innocent lives at risk. But they'd become stationary in this town, in it for the long haul, so fraudulent insurance cards were a no-no. And the price of the two legs alone was more than Dean had hustled in the past five years. Add to that the cost of the physical therapist and prosthetist and lord only knew what else in the future and Sam was at a loss for how to pay for it all. State programs had agreed to pay for one prosthesis and four weeks worth of therapy, but the choice of leg was limited if they went that route and Dean didn't deserve to be short changed. Not only did he not deserve it, he couldn't afford it. He had to have top notch, indisputable craftsmanship if he ever planned to get back into the hunt, and for that, Sam would do absolutely anything.

Which brought him here, to this bank, on this day, sweating profusely beside Bobby as they prepared to clean out the vault.

"You're sure you got the video loop going," Bobby hissed as Sam's hand went to the doorknob. "It's not going to record us?"

"We're good," Sam assured him, only after running those events back through his head to confirm it to himself. "Yeah, I got it. You ready?"

_Hell, no._ If Sam thought _he_ was crazy for being here, Bobby sure as hell didn't know why he was here. Sure, he loved John Winchester's boys as though they were his own, but nothing could compare to the love the brother's shared for each other. He could never even dream of feeling that kind of emotion. And yet here he was, dogging young Sam Winchester's heels in what was, without a doubt, the most stupid, reckless, illegal thing he'd ever done in his long life. Still, he found himself nodding his compliance. "Let's go."

Sam's fingers lingered over the doorknob for just a second more before they grasped it tightly and turned. He finally burst through, gun drawn and level with his shoulder aiming in the general direction of the tellers without pointing it at any one person. The four tellers, all finalizing their money counts before heading home, looked up from their stacks in total shock and fear.

"Everybody, hands up! This is a robbery!" Sam exclaimed, his voice surprisingly steady despite his frayed nerves. He noted the first teller on the left reaching under the counter for the panic button and turned his gun on the young man. "Push it and I'll shoot you where you stand," Sam snarled, noted conviction behind the lie he'd just told. He knew he would never shoot anyone; knew that if it came to that he would rather turn the gun on himself. But they didn't have to know that anymore than they had to know the panic button had been disarmed.

Behind him, Sam could sense Bobby covering the area, eyes and gun scanning the entire room for additional threats as Sam controlled the actual theft. He reached behind him, grabbing the bag from his waistband and tossing it at the nearest teller, a woman in her late forties. "Fill it," he ordered. "All the money in your drawer then pass it to the next girl."

His hostage did as she was told, nervously dumping the bills into the drawer before timidly asking "Do...do you want the change?"

"What?" Sam demanded, caught off guard. He hadn't expected the question, hadn't really expected to be hearing anything other than pleas of 'don't hurt me,' and other entreaties for their lives. But he finally recovered, and replied. "No. Just the bills."

She nodded and handed the bag on to the next person who filled it with the contents of her drawer and then handed it on down the line and so on as Sam nervously waited out the precious seconds it took to fill the bag with the meager contents of the drawers.

"Who has the key to the vault?" Sam demanded when the final teller filled the bag and handed it back to Sam. The gun was beginning to shake in his hand as the reality of the situation began to sink in. _I'm robbing a bank. I'm robbing a fucking bank._ But he willed himself to remain calm, reminding himself why he was doing this. Reminding himself that Dean deserved to have the best, and this would give him just that.

Anxiously looking among themselves, the four tellers seemed to be silently arguing over who would step forward. The sole male finally raised a hand, taking timid steps from behind the counter as he pulled a set of keys from his pocket.

"I'm not going to hurt you, as long as you do as I ask," Sam assured him. "I get what I came for and me and mine will be on our way."

The man remained rigid, untrusting, but continued to move toward the vault with purpose. Sam went with him while Bobby stayed behind to guard the others.

"I don't want any stacks with the dyes," Sam warned as he shoved another bag toward the guy and indicated that he should begin filling it. "You fuck this up and I'll come back for you - you got me?"

He nodded, skittish as he began separating some stacks from others, the majority of those stacks going into the burlap. "You're not going to get away with this," he said shakily. "There's security cameras all over the place. They'll catch you."

"I'll take my chances," Sam monotoned, omitting his knowledge that the cameras were on a continuous feed loop and that, as far as the guards were concerned, all the tellers were still counting their money. "Just hurry it up so I can get out of here and so can you. You make this fast and you'll still make it home for supper."

The guy finished up and Sam snatched the bag from his shaky hands, his own shaking fingers barely able to grip the neck of the bag. "See, that wasn't so hard now was it?" Sam asked as he motioned the man out of vault with a shake of his gun. "Now you guys just let us get out of here and everything will be fine.

Finishing their holdup, Sam and Bobby tied their hostages with loose knots, just enough to keep them busy for a few minutes as they made their getaway, and the two men took off back the way they came, each carrying a bag. The door was still propped open just a crack when they got to it, and Bobby made his way out first, gun drawn in preparation of trouble. He disappeared through the exit, Sam following right behind.

"Police, lower your weapons!"

The ambush was quick, unexpected, and in his nervousness Bobby began to raise his hands without dropping the weapon. Crack! The cops had mistaken his effort to turn himself in for an attack and Bobby was stopped in his tracks with a bullet through his chest. His eyes went blank almost immediately as he finally dropped the gun and brought his hand up to his chest. Blood dripped from his mouth and he dropped heavily to his knees, head turning to look at Sam. _Save yourself, kid. _

"BOBBY!" Sam screamed instead, lunging for his friend.

"Stay put kid!" a cop ordered, the guns of several officers pointed directly at him.

"You shot him, you bastards!" he screamed, voice changing as he forced the air from his lungs. "He was giving himself up. You fucking bastards!"

"Sam," Bobby whispered as he fell to his side, still looking up at the young hunter. "Sam, it's okay. Sam..."

The young hunter dropped to his knees beside Bobby, challenging the officers to shoot him too. "Bobby, I'm sorry. It was for Dean. This whole thing. I'm sorry Bobby..."

"It's alright, Sam," the hunter continued to assure him, his voice becoming louder and more insistent as Sam continued to apologize for his failures. But wait, that wasn't right. Bobby was dying; his voice shouldn't be getting stronger, it should be weaker...

"Sam..."

Not stronger, weaker...

"Sam...!"

He's dying...

"SAM! Wake up!" It wasn't Bobby's voice any longer.

"Huh? Wha-" Sam blinked wildly, frantically trying to focus his eyes, trying to latch onto the voice that called to him. Suddenly he was no longer in the alley behind the bank, and Bobby was no longer bleeding out before his very eyes from a gunshot to the chest. He was in his own bed in Missouri's house, sweat pouring down his face as he gasped for air. Dean hovered nervously overtop of him.

"Sam, you were dreaming," Dean soothed, the concern in his voice thick and desperate. Sam hadn't had such a loud, violent dream in so long, and he feared he was the cause of this newest one.

"Dean," he gasped, fingers gripping tightly to his brother's arm.

"It's okay now, I'm here. You're alright."

"What– Did I...say anything?" Sam asked weakly, as the full impact of his dream slammed into his mind. _God, Dean can't know what that was about. I can't have him feeling guilty about this._

"You just kept saying 'I'm not going to hurt you,' over and over again, and then you started screaming Bobby's name. What the hell, Sam? What was the dream about?"

_He can't know. _"I...I just...I don't really remember it. I just remember feeling tense and nervous and then I woke up." Damn, was he getting better at lying or was Dean just getting worse at reading him?

"You're sure?" Dean asked, skeptically. "You don't have a clue what it was about?"

"Not one. I'm sorry, Dean, I wish I did."

"So you don't know if it was a dream or a vision."

Shit, was that hope? Was Dean actually hoping for a vision? He'd gone from 'I won't ever hunt, to let's go kick some ass' in less than a day? No way, not happening.

"It wasn't a vision," Sam assured the older man, relieved to actually be telling the truth this time. "I've never been asleep when they come on; and I always remember them. This was definitely just a dream."

Dean continued to sit there for several more minutes, studying his little brother for any abnormalities; third eyes, horns, extended nose.

"Seriously, Dean, I'm fine," Sam finally insisted, shooing the worried older hunter from his bed. "Just go back to sleep, I'm good."

With a curt nod and a final glance in Sam's direction Dean finally collected the crutch he had dropped on the floor in his haste to get to his flailing brother and returned to his own bed. "Good night, Sam," he whispered as he pulled the covers back up to his chin. "Sweet dreams."

"You too, Dean." Sam groaned and turned over on his side, eyes flicking to the green glowing numbers on the alarm clock. 2:47. Damn it was going to be a long night, and he definitely wasn't about to get another minute of sleep; the dream too vivid and real in his mind. The actual robbery was the only thing that hadn't really happened; the money shortage, the state funding, the fact that Dean wasn't going to be getting the other leg they'd ordered - all of that was real, and Sam's stomach felt like it was about to rebel just thinking about it.

Sam had been on cloud nine when they returned home from the basketball game; who wouldn't have been after the progress they'd made. Dean had agreed to try again. He'd been smiling. Hell, he'd even cracked a few jokes. For the first time since Bobby had pulled them from the woods Sam actually had hope for their future. He had a real and concrete reason to believe that things just might work out. Dean was finally coming back to him.

And then his hopes had once again been dashed; and dammit, why couldn't any happiness for the Winchester's be guilt free. Why did everything have to come with strings attached? Because just after Dean disappeared upstairs for some rest Missouri had pulled Sam aside and anxiously thrust a thick white envelope at him, her hands wringing nervously as she waited for Sam to open the mail. The minute she had collected the mail and touched that envelope she'd felt bad vibes, and those, along with the ominous return address to the "Health and Welfare Services' had immediately told her enough to know this was not something Dean should see.

Glancing up at Missouri, seeing Bobby slowly settling himself into a chair out of the corner of his eye, Sam grimaced and pulled the letter out of the envelope and began reading. The first 'shit' came out of his mouth before he'd finished the second sentence; the next three were uttered before he'd reached the end of the first paragraph. Finishing the two page letter was completed with a very frustrated 'fuck' as he slammed his fist down on the table. The wooden chair clattered to the ground as he jumped to his feet and began pacing the parquet floor, shaky hands scrubbing compulsively through his tangled locks of hair.

"Sam, what does it say?" Missouri finally asked when her curiosity got to be too much.

Silence followed; a long, nerve-wracking silence as Sam processed her question and the words on the paper. And then he spoke, voice shaking. "He's not getting the leg; either one of them." His entire body quivered, face turning beet red as his anger rose. "He had the damn thing on; in his possession, and now they're saying he can't have it because it costs too much."

"What?" Bobby was incredulous, completely astounded at the idea. Sam spun around to look at the man, eyes blazing as he fought back the urge to go straight down to state programs and bash in the heads of every last one of them.

"Damn pricks say he can have three thousand dollars towards a new leg and four weeks worth of therapy. That's enough to pay for the socket," Sam steamed, returning to his pacing. "I finally have him willing to give this thing a try - he's ready to go in there Monday morning and actually learn how to use the thing, and now they're saying he can't have it because it costs to much. This isn't fair. This is so un_fair_!" The only thing that kept Sam from yelling was the fact that the noise would have woken Dean, and he had to figure this thing out without his brother.

"Now calm down, Sam. We can figure this out," Missouri soothed. "I've got some money saved up."

"Me too," Bobby nodded.

"And I'm sure we can take out loans-"

"No!" Sam exclaimed quickly. "He wouldn't go for it. We can't." Tears formed in Sam's eyes and it was obvious that he was fighting with himself not to accept the charity. It would be so easy; Dean wouldn't have to know. He could get a job, pay everybody back... but no. If Dean ever found out about this... He hated charity, more than anything else, he hated to feel as though he owed anybody anything. It wouldn't work.

"But Sam..." Missouri pressed.

"No, Missouri. I want to - you have no idea - but I just can't. I'll figure something out."

And so he'd worried; for the rest of the day and on into the night, working overtime to hide his distress when Dean was around, but never clearing the thoughts completely from his mind. The dream had unnerved him, the first sign that he was willing to go to extremes to get the money for his brother's care. As much as he tried to convince himself that he wouldn't actually do something like that, he couldn't get the dream from his mind.

He lay there, watching the minutes slowly tick by as he continued to worry about their financial issues, the occurrences in his dream continuing to streamline through his mind until it suddenly hit him. The dream wasn't a vision, but it was definitely prophetic. He'd had it for a reason, and the key was the key. Thinking back, visualizing the keys in the young male tellers hands he realized they hadn't been normal keys. They were skeleton keys; and then he realized another connection and slowly made his way from the bed. Sneaking past his now sleeping brother Sam realized with concern that Dean didn't seem to wake up at the slightest creak and groan anymore. But he would use that to his advantage right now; worry about it later.

Their father's journal was in the trunk of the car, abandoned after Dean had gotten hurt, and Sam pulled it out and then climbed into the passenger seat of the Impala, flipping through pages by the light of the mini-maglite he held in his teeth. _Come on, come on, I know it's in here_, he worried. And then it was there, halfway through the yellowed pages of the leather bound journal. A pencil-drawn sketch of an old skeleton key, shaded on one side and words on the other. Sam had to squint in the darkness to read the tiny block letters that lined the edge of the image. BANS 1 FATSO SKANK.

He remembered the first time he noticed that page after he and Dean had first gotten back together, the lines so fresh by comparison to the pages surrounding it, and he'd laughed. _The old man must really be losing it. What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ But now he couldn't help but wonder if it may be so much more clever than he'd originally thought. Now he wondered if the obscure words lining the edge of the odd looking key might be an anagram for something completely different; something much more powerful; something that could help them in their time of death. Even post-mortem, their father was sending secret clues.

He stared at the letters for close to an hour, rearranging them over and over until his eyes felt like they were going to be permanently crossed in their sockets. When the moment of Eureka finally struck he had expected it to see more enlightening, but all he really got was a sense of 'duh' as the letters finally rearranged to spell out 1ST Financial Bank of Kansas. _A Bank. _And then the bank dream all started to make sense, except Sam once again started to get all panicky as he questioned whether or not the grand master plan truly was for him to rob the bank after all. And could he really do that?

"No. That can't be it," Sam finally concluded, looking once again to the page as he sought out more clues. There was the skeleton key and the writing and the shading... The shading!

It wasn't just shading, he finally realized, noticing how the edges were all pointed and squared, and he finally saw the shape of a house drawn into the gray pencil lines along the lefthand side of the key. _But whose house?_ Our old house? Missouri's? One near the bank?

By process of elimination, Sam determined that it had to be Missouri's house - or maybe it was just a deep seated hope because Missouri's house would be easy. He couldn't afford hard right now, so it had to be simple.

Looking at the clock on the car's dash, Sam was pleased to discover the time to be almost 6:00. Missouri would be up soon, and he could ask her about a key. Had she seen one? Had John ever entrusted one to her care. Where the hell was this leading?!


	22. Chapter 22

**_Hey all - so I didn't plan for this to be so late, but originally I had planned for the boys to go to the bank, open the box and find some cash. Period. But then I got so many reviews expressing how exciting this key thing was going to be and I felt like I owed you more. So I had to regenerate this part of the story and then write it in what has turned out to be a very hectic week. But enough excuses - it's here now. I promise the next chapter won't take as long to put up. Hope this meets with your approval. I haven't yet replied to your reviews from last chapter, but that's what I'm heading off to go do now. So here's just a general Thank You to all my rockin fans. You are all much appreciated. And here's the next chapter..._**

Missouri went straight for the key, unflinching, unquestioning, leaving Sam totally stymied. There was no search, no memory prompting, and he felt like it shouldn't have been nearly as easy as it had been to find the key.

He had left the Impala not long after making his discovery about the idea of a key and soon found himself in the kitchen staring at the slowly filling coffee pot. Missouri finally appeared as he was filling his mug for the third time and he quickly slammed it on the counter, hot liquid sloshing over the sides.

"Did my Dad ever give you a key to hold onto?" Sam asked in lieu of a 'good morning.'

The psychic raised her eyebrow, beckoning him to remember his manners, but nodded as soon as she had received her morning greeting. "He did."

"Well did he say why? Did he tell you what it was for?" Sam asked anxiously, foot tapping out a staccato rhythm on the kitchen floor as he waited for a response.

Shaking her head, Missouri answered. "He never told me what it was for or who it was for, or even why he was giving it specifically to me. He just said that when the person who was meant to have it was ready for it they would come. I'm guessing that person is you." She didn't wait for Sam to agree before turning and disappearing from the kitchen.

Sam held back, debating whether or not he was supposed to follow her. But she was back before he had to make the decision, handing over a small gold key that looked absolutely nothing like the skeleton key he'd been expecting.

"Did he tell you what it goes to?"

Missouri shook her head yet again. "Like I said, Sam, all he told me is that whenever someone came for the key to hand it over. There was nothing more to it."

Refusing to be deterred, Sam shrugged and studied the key more closely. He took note of the six digit serial number on the side of the key. It had to be some kind of safety deposit box or something, he figured. And then he looked back at his watch, already knowing the answer before he looked at the date stamp, but hoping another twenty-four hours had passed in the time he'd sat there with Missouri. But it was to no avail; it was still Sunday, and the bank would still be closed until Monday. _Damn it. Damnitdamnitdamnit!_

He began to wonder if his dreams were even more prophetic than he had originally thought. Maybe he really was fated to rob a bank, only this time with no innocent tellers inside. He figured he might be able to do that a little bit easier - keep the innocent bystanders out of the way. Because there was no way on earth he could actually manage to get through another whole day before he found out what the key was all about. It could be the answer to their financial woes, or it could just be one last screwed up order their father left them before he died.

"What are you going to do?" Missouri asked, gently laying a hand on top of Sam's.

"I guess I just have to wait until the bank opens tomorrow," Sam answered resignedly. As much as he would have liked to be that guy, he knew there was no way he could ever _actually _rob a bank. He would just have to work on being patient.

"What do you need a bank for?"

Startled, both Sam and Missouri's heads shot up at the intrusion of a new voice in the room. Blinking rapidly, nervously, Sam eyed Dean. _How the hell did he manage to get down here without making any noise?_

"I...I, uh...I just thought maybe I should get a job since we're going to be here for a while. You know, help Missouri with the bills and all..."

"And you want to get a job at a bank?" Dean asked, his skepticism written all over his face.

"Well I, uh...it was listed in the want ads," Sam added. "I thought I might go put out some feelers at a couple places today, but the bank won't be open until tomorrow. So I'm going to have to wait on that."

Dean nodded, chewing on the lie, processing it. "You're a terrible liar, Sammy," he finally concluded. "What's this really about?"

"It's like I said..." Sam insisted.

"Sammmm."

He finally relented, sighing dramatically. "Sit down, Dean," Sam ordered, pushing out one of the chairs with his foot.

The older brother obliged, hopping forward on his crutches and lowering himself into the chair.

"Can I get you anything to eat? Drink? Some coffee?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Stop stalling, Sam. What's this all about?"

"Dad left us a key to a safety deposit box," Sam began, omitting the how and the why he had found the key in the first place. One way or another, Dean would find out about the key. He was certain of that. So it really couldn't hurt to tell him now. But Sam would be damned if he ever told Dean why he was hoping so badly that the key led them to money. There was no way Dean could know they couldn't afford the prostheses. There was no way Sam was letting him give them up.

"Well do you know what's in it?" Dean questioned eagerly, his eyes lighting up at the possibilities.

Sam shook his head. "No; and the bank isn't open on Sunday's so we can't find out until tomorrow."

"And you don't want to wait that long."

"Do you?" Sam scoffed.

"No, I guess not."

"And yet we don't have a choice. So we just have to find some way to pass the time."

xxxxxxxxxx

It seemed as though there was nothing they could do to make the time go at anything faster than a snails pace, and by the time Monday morning rolled around Sam and Dean were about stir crazy and Bobby and Missouri both had several fewer hairs in their heads after pulling so many out in reaction to the boys' restlessness.

The boys were up and dressed by eight the next morning, Dean insisting that he had to be at the bank too. When the doors opened at eight thirty they were out in the parking lot waiting.

The bored brunette teller behind the counter barely looked up at them when they walked in, motioning them to her window with a lethargic pull of her fingers. "What can I do for you?" she monotoned, her cheek resting heavily on her fisted hand. That and the dark circles around her eyes suggested that she hadn't gotten much sleep the night before and Sam found himself identifying with her.

"Our Dad died a few months ago," Sam began, surprised to find the actual truth spilling from his mouth for once. But in this case, the truth worked for them, and there was no sense in wasting a perfectly good cover story when there was no need for one. "We found this safe-deposit key in his stuff and we wanted to find out what was in there. Thing is, he didn't have the box number written down - you know, security issues and all.

"What's the name on the box?" she asked, slowly uncurling herself enough to turn to her computer.

"I'm guessing it would be under John Winchester." _God I hope he wasn't stupid enough to put an alias on it. I wouldn't even begin to know where to start. _

She punched a few buttons on the keyboard. "Yeah, he's got a box here."

"That's great, uhh...Heather," Sam pressed, flashing her his million dollar smile as he leaned in to read her name badge. "Can you tell us what number it is and where to find it?"

She slowly shook her head from side to side. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Winchester's name is the only one on the account. I can only let him open the box."

Sam let out an exasperated sigh as he stepped forward, forearms landing heavily on the countertop. Behind him, he could sense Dean rolling his eyes, yet he knew Dean wouldn't be stepping up to deal with this. He was so much better at the confrontations so much better at sweet talking people into doing exactly what he wanted. But the older man had lost all sense of self-confidence when he lost his leg, and Sam had no doubt that he would fear attention being called to him. As it was, Dean was probably shrinking back in the shadows, away from Sam, leaving Sam to take all the heat and all the attention.

"He can't open the box," Sam ground out, struggling to keep his voice at level tones as he reminded himself to remain calm, to not lose his temper. "I just told you - he died."

"Do you have any proof of this?" For her part, Heather didn't seem to be at all concerned that a six foot five giant was hovering over her petite frame, seconds from strangling her. Her bored tone never changed; he eyes never looked up to make contact with Sam's.

"What kind of proof am I supposed to have?

She shrugged nonchalantly. "You'll need a death certificate. And proof that you're next of kin - at least something that proves you have rights to be getting into the box."

_Well damn it. How the hell am I supposed to have a death certificate on a body stolen from the hospital before it even made it to the morgue? _He and Dean had been quick after their father's death, barely even taking the time to process his demise before making off with his still warm corpse. The doctors had offered them time alone; time to say good bye to their father after his unexpected death, and Dean had quickly taken them up on that offer. The staff disconnected all the leads from their father's body and then made a hasty getaway, leaving the two sons to grieve in peace. Sam hadn't waited a full minute before he sprinted to the door to check for the coast to be clear and then helped Dean wheel their father's body from the building. He'd made a mad dash to the Impala as Dean waited anxiously in the shadows and then they had stuffed John's body into the back seat of the car and made tracks to prepare his final rest.

"We don't have a death certificate." Sam's mind was working fasat, desperately trying to formulate a story for why it didn't exist. "We were, uh, mountain climbing when it happened. It got cold, and the air was thin, and we didn't have the strength to carry him down with us. He...he's still up there." A pause. "There's no tangible proof of his passing."

Her eyes finally widened a little, suddenly beginning to take an interest in her clients, ad then her gaze rested on Dean. "You get hurt on the same trip?" she demanded, not seeming to recognize her own rudeness.

Dean's eyes dropped to the floor as his face flushed with embarrassment. She wasn't supposed to notice him. He wasn't supposed to be seen.

But Sam played it up; he'd never even considered adding Dean to the mix, but it fit the story. "Yeah. Frostbite's a total bitch. I lost a coupla toes myself."

From the corner of his eye Sam saw Dean flinch and immediately regretted being so blase about his brother's loss. Dean was so vulnerable; just about anything could set him off, and Sam had just used his injury as part of a fabricated lie. He might as well had stood there and mocked him directly for all the difference it would have made in Dean's reaction. But there was nothing Sam could do about it now; he would just have to make extra certain he made it up to Dean later.

"I can't even imagine what that must have been like for you," Heather swooned, doing a direct about face from her original lax self. Hero worship - Sam would recognize it anywhere, and he just hoped it would work now that he'd gone and messed up things with Dean already.

"It was pretty scary, I'll tell you." _But enough about that, just give me the damn key._ "But enough about us. I'm sure you have better things to do. If we could just get into that box now..."

"I'm sorry, really I am–"

Sam cut her off. "You see, he gave us the location of that key when we were still on the mountain - when he realized he wasn't going to make it. Said it was **very** important that we get what's inside." Sam put a heavy emphasis on the 'very,' drawing it out long and firm.

Heather eyed them for a minute, her eyes bouncing back and forth between Sam and Dean, and Dean's leg. The gears could be seen turning inside her head as she contemplated her decision. "What did you say your name was again?" she asked, the tone in her voice lightening.

Knowing better than to show his relief as she began to back off, Sam flashed another smile. "It's Sam. Sam Winchester. I'm John's son."

She chewed her bottom lip, clearly struggling with the pros and cons associated with what she was about to do, and finally relented, barely whispering her answer so the teller two windows over couldn't hear her. "Okay; I'll show you to the box. But if anyone asks later, you showed me a death certificate and you must have had a very good fake because I certainly couldn't tell the difference."

Sam sighed, nodding his thanks. "Trust me, no one will ask."

"They better not." Heather checked her computer again, internalizing the number of the box before leading the boys to the back of the bank and down a long hallway to the location of the safety deposit boxes. Sam followed briskly behind as Dean struggled to keep up.

They gratefully thanked her for her assistance in finding the box and then waited for her to leave before Sam inserted the key into the lock. "What do you think is in here?" he asked as the tumblers turned and clicked into place.

"I'd rather just open it and find out," Dean shrugged. He was beginning to wonder if it had been a good idea for him to tag along. The stares and the questions were far too much for him still. He should have just stayed at home or waited in the car. He should have let Sam handle this by himself. But it was too late now to turn around. He was already here, and the metal box was about to be opened.

It wasn't very big, only about six inches cubed, and Sam's hopes were immediately dashed as he realized there was no way he was about to find thousands of dollars in cash in there. Not that he had truly been expected to find cash; their father had never been one to save cash, and what little he did made was always spent on the necessities - food, lodging, weapons. Before he even opened the thing Sam was already regretting this trip, realizing that he'd just wasted hours trusting their financial worries might be taken care of by their father. Ha - what a laugh.

When he actually saw what was inside he was even more pissed off, and it was only Dean's calm rationality that kept him from hurling the box and all its contents across the room.

On top was a short stack of pictures; a family portrait taken just a couple of months before the fire with a goofy grinned Dean sitting on his father's lap and tiny baby Sammy bundled happily in Mary's arms, a photograph of Mary pushing Dean on the swings at a local park with Sam tucked securely in a baby carrier against her chest, a picture of John and Mary on their wedding day - the only time either of the boys would see their father dressed in anything other than jeans and flannel shirts, and a picture of the three Winchester men on one of the few side trips they had ever taken - Sam was about five and Dean nine, and their father had taken them to a small lake to fish for a couple of days. Sam quickly set them aside, barely taking the time to revel in the sentimentality of the few precious memories before continuing to rifle through the meager contents of the box.

Beneath the pictures was Mary's wedding ring, slightly distorted from the heat but one of the few possessions that could be salvaged from Mary's charred body. Neither brother had realized it existed anymore. But Sam shoved it aside just as quickly as he continued his search, pillaging through more of their mother's few possessions; an antique silver hand mirror, slightly charred on the handle, a dried and pressed rose in waxed packaging, and a lock of fine hair that Sam assumed was either his or Dean's, although there was no name written on the card it was taped to. But none of those items meant anything to Sam in his disappointment at not finding a way to help Dean keep his prostheses, and he dumped them on the table with less loving care than he would normally have utilized.

It wasn't until they reached the last item in the box that Sam's utter disgust took over his mental status, and Dean found himself reaching a calming hand out to Sam's shoulder. Voicing a low "Sam," as a warning was the only thing Dean could think to do to calm Sam down, the innate knowledge that he lacked to strength to physically restrain his brother weighing heavily on his already downtrodden conscience. Dean was no more please at the final bit of paper than Sam was, but he also lacked the knowledge that Sam had about his questionable future, so his reaction was due to other, simple reasons.

"Coordinates," Sam spat out, shaking the small white square of paper in front of Dean's eyes. "All this trouble, all this hoping, and all he can do is leave us a fucking set of coordinates."

Dean flinched. He didn't like it either, the knowledge that there was nothing he could do if it was some sort of a hunt making him feel completely and utterly useless. But it really couldn't be that important of a hunt, could it? If it was that bug a deal he wouldn't have locked it away in some safety deposit box. What was to say they would have found it when they did? What was to say they would have found it period?

"It's not a hunt." Dean stated flatly, as he stared at the numbers, working out their general location. "He wouldn't risk us not finding them. It has to be for something else."

"Like what?" Sam demanded, beginning to pace the room. _Nonono, this isn't the way this is supposed to be happening. This isn't how this was supposed to go. We were supposed to come here, find some secret stash of money, and pay for Dean's medical bills. He has to get those legs. He has to get his therapy. This can't end like this! Damn you Dad!_

"I'm not sure," Dean answered, disappointed that he didn't have an immediate answer but pleased to finally feel like he was a part of something important again. "But we're not going to be able to figure it out here. Let's take this stuff and go home; talk this over with Missouri and Bobby and figure out where these coordinates lead."

Sam wondered if Dean would be so calm if he knew exactly what was at stake. "This is bullshit, Dean. All our lives we followed his damn orders; fight after fight, spell after spell, hell Dean, when he said jump we didn't just ask how high, but how many times, sir. And now, even in death, he's still sending us on some wild goose chase that may or may not lead us to something worthwhile."

"What the hell is going on with you, Sam?" Dean finally asked after studying his livid brother and deciding it had more to do than just feeling as though he was wasting his time. "Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me?"

"It's nothing, Dean," Sam was quick to insist, immediately shutting his mouth and ordering himself to calm down. _You're blowing it, Sam. Shut the hell up before he figures out what's going on. _"I guess I'm just sick of always being forced to live at the beck and call of other's orders. Our lives aren't our own, Dean. It's always something else, someone else, telling us what to do and how to do it, and what is and isn't allowed." _And whether or not someone without insurance is as entitled to top notch prosthetic legs as someone with money. Why the hell do these people think they have any right at all to tell Dean that he isn't deserving of the best just because he can't afford it? This is so fucking unfair!_

Well, it was partially the truth. A lot of his anger stemmed from the fact that he was feeling so helpless towards Dean's situation. All Sam wanted to do was make everything better, just make everything disappear. As it was, their lives seemed to be quickly spiraling out of control; starting with the injury itself. Lately Sam's world had been nothing but a series of if only's. If only they hadn't gone on the trip in the first place. If only Sam and Dean had taken the opposite paths in search of the beast. If only Sam hadn't used the belt to staunch the flow of blood. If only he hadn't gotten hurt to the point that he couldn't get Dean out of the woods sooner. Added to those worries that had been with him since that fateful night when he'd woken up in the hospital, Sam had a series of new if only's. If only they had bothered to buy some real insurance for Dean. If only they had a legitimate credit card that could actually be traced without fear of fraud charges. If only their father wasn't such a bastard to lead them on a wild goose chase for nothing.

But then there was the nagging feeling that Sam's dream couldn't possibly have been so vivid and seemingly prophetic, and yet lead them nowhere. There had to be a reason for the dream; had to be some kind of pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

"I guess we have to check out these coordinates then," Sam finally suggested, pulling himself from his reverie. He wasn't sure if it was the best thing to be doing; was terrified that they would encounter some kind of a hunt when they reached the new coordinates and the it would reiterate to Dean yet again what his limitations were. But if there was even the slightest chance that they would lead to some kind of assistance Sam had to take that chance. This was about Dean and what was best for him.


	23. Chapter 23

**_Well, I held off on posting this in hopes that the alerts would start working again. And then finally decided to suck it up and post either way...and tada! The alerts are back up again. Whoo hoo!! So I hope this was worth the wait. I was so pleased that so many of you went off in search of this story regardless of the sporadic alert system this site seems to have. You all rock! Thanks for all your awesome support. _**

The coordinates led to Independence, KS, a small town about three and a half hours from Lawrence. Dean had a niggling feeling that he'd heard of the town before, that it had some significance to it besides just being a town in the same state they were born in. He wanted to leave right away, and the hint of light finally reflecting from Dean's eyes almost made Sam say yes to that request. But Dean had therapy that day, and Sam had an all too rational fear that if they missed their appointment it could be the last one Dean had. He had no way of knowing how long it would be until the state caught up with the rehab facility; he didn't know how long Dean would have access to the high tech leg they had left behind the previous week for more adjustments. If this really did turn out to be a wild goose chase as Sam feared, and they came back empty handed, Sam needed to feel that damage control had already been done. No, they had to wait on the coordinates.

He let Dean drive again, pleased that the little gesture allowed the spark of light to continue to shine in spite of his command that they put off their trip to Independence. Dean seemed more comfortable behind the wheel now, less tense, less fearsome that he might inadvertently crash the car without a second leg available to help do the driving. He seemed at home yet again behind the wheel of his beloved car, and that made Sam happy. As they pulled out onto the four lane toward the Lawrence rehab Hospital Dean smoothly leaned over to pop in one of his Metalica tapes, turning the music up full blast and pounding out the drum beat on the steering wheel with his open palm. Sam looked over and smiled a true smile for the first time since Dean had been hurt, the normalcy of the situation more than he could have possibly expected.

Instead of waiting to be led to the gym as they had in the past, the brother's found their own way this time, choosing a table on the far wall out of the way of the other occupants of the room. Dean sat, his nervousness immediately apparent once again as he prepared for another round with the hated contraption. Sam still maintained that this was the best way for him to get on with his life, that it would help him to become everything he once was. Deep down, Dean knew Sam was right. He knew the prosthetic was his best chance at regaining his life. But it was still too hard to accept; still too hard to believe that his flesh and bone had been reduced to carbon and fiberglass.

Things hadn't gone well on his first fitting, although, aside from the obvious he had managed to keep the majority of it to himself. His stomach had rebelled horribly, churning and sloshing, and it was all Dean could do to keep the contents in his stomach where they belonged, to not tell Sam that he was barely keeping his lunch down. The socket had felt weird suctioning to his leg, and the pressure was beyond imaginable - completely indescribable. He had no way of explaining the odd way it had pressed against his remaining leg, making the limb feel as though it was nothing more than a peg in a hole.

He cringed when he saw Dr. Jennings heading his way, the high-tech limb resting in both hands as he clenched a nylon bag between his elbow and his side. The man grinned when he saw the brother's waiting for him, nodding his greeting to them. "Afternoon boys!" he said as he came within speaking distance. "Glad you could make it back today. Dean, are you ready to give this another try?"

_You promised Sam,_ Dean reminded himself before nodding hesitantly. He forced himself to remember Joe Rombardi and the fact that he seemed virtually normal, made himself remember the impressive slam dunks, the way he had run circles around the men who had guarded him. He could do that; Joe had promised. Sam had promised. Dr. Jennings had promised. And Dean had promised he would try.

"Let's get on with this thing."

"I see you remembered to bring an extra shoe today," the doctor remarked with a pleased grin, eyeing the tennis shoe that sat at Dean's side, a clean match to the slightly more scuffed shoe on his right foot. "Let's go ahead and put that on the prosthetic before we get you situated. Do you want to do it?" Jennings offered the leg to his patient as he waited for a response.

Dean shook his head. "It..it would be too weird," he explained, crossing his arms against his chest.

"I'll do it," Sam offered, the slight hesitation in his voice stemming from his fear of Dean's response to his continued eagerness. He took the leg from the doctor's outstretched hand, resting it lightly on his lap as he undid the laces of the shoe and pulled the two sides apart as much as possible. The shoe slid on easily, fitting snug over a mechanical foot made to match the length of Dean's right foot. He had feared that the extra space left over from a flat piece of metal instead of a fully molded foot might make it loose within the shoe, but the distance between the 'toe' and the 'ankle' was a perfect match to the distance within the shoe.

After tying the laces snugly and flexing the ankle a few times as he pulled at the shoe to make sure it was secure, Sam handed the prosthesis back to the doctor for the next step.

"Do you remember what we did on Friday?" Dr. Jennings prompted his patient, handing the nylon bag over to Dean as he spoke.

Dean opened the bag, noticing the remaining components for his leg inside, and shook out the contents onto the table beside him. "Vaguely," he admitted grudgingly. He didn't want to do this, really didn't want to have to do it by himself.

"I'll talk you through it," Jennings replied. "But you're going to do the steps this time."

Glancing at Dean, Sam noticed the abject fear marring his features and realized he was shutting down again. "You can do this, Dean," Sam prompted gently. "Come on, Dean, this is easy. You've faced so much worse." He just wished what he was saying was true. Demons they could handle. Poltergeists, piece of cake. Banshee's and Werewolves, not a problem. But getting your leg chopped off and then learning how to walk on a manufactured leg? Now that was something they had never encountered, and if _he_ was secretly scared to death he could only imagine what Dean was feeling right about now.

But somehow his words managed to provide the comfort and security he'd been trying for and Dean nodded with slight determination. "I do the liner first, right?" He rooted through the pile for the sock looking thing and waved it apathetically at the doctor.

The man nodded. "That's right. Just make sure it's nice and snug; no wrinkles, remember?"

Dean nodded, rolling up the leg of his pants as he did so and pulling the liner as snugly as he could. Sam noted he'd blanked his face completely as he began the process, as though he was totally removing himself from the task at hand. He was practically robotic in his motions. But the younger Winchester said nothing to bring his brother around. If this was what he needed to make it through the task he would give him that much - for now.

"Then the sleeve?" Dean asked flatly, fingering the padded foam between his thumb and forefinger. He was already struggling to pull it on as the doctor nodded.

"And now the leg itself," Jennings finished, pushing the prosthesis in Dean's direction.

Dean sighed, hesitating before he accepted the new limb. But once it was in his hands he went back to his stone faced aloofness. He flexed the residual limb a bit, settling it within the confines of the cloths before pulling the stiff socket over top, gritting his teeth as the pressure flared anew around his limb.

"How's that feel?" Dr. Jennings asked, watching Dean's face for any signs of discomfort.

"It's fine." _For a fucking piece of metal._

"Are you ready to give standing a try again?"

Taking in a deep breath and holding it for several seconds Dean contemplated his options. He could take the easy route and just say no. But Sam would be so disappointed, and he _had_ promised he would give this a try. He could say yes, of course. How hard could this really be? Remove himself from the surroundings. Concentrate on something else to pass the time; to pretend he wasn't trying to walk around on some piece of fabricated metal trying to pass for a leg. It would make Sam happy, and that's what his life was about. If Sam was happy, he could be happy. Now he just had to keep reminding himself of that mantra. That's what he would focus on - making Sam happy.

So he nodded. "Yeah, let's give this a try." Once again, Dean found himself the victim of Dr. Jennings touchy-feely hands, grabbing him around the waist as he hoisted himself up on his crutches.

"Let's try to put some weight on the leg now," Jennings prompted, steadying himself in anticipation of a potential collapse. "Nice and easy."

Keeping his eyes and mind focused on Sam, Dean shifted his weight to the prosthetic, hesitating somewhat until he was assured that there would be no stabbing pains like he had experienced the first time around. It was just a dull, constant pressure that greeted him as he pressed more weight into the new device, finally allowing himself to evenly distribute his weight across both legs as he would normally do.

"How does that feel?" Sam asked, jumping the gun on asking the same question the doctor was about to ask. He just needed to feel involved; to feel needed. If he only knew just how important he was to the whole process...

"Okay," Dean answered, unable to hide the surprise in his voice as he finally accepted the leg to be slightly cool. He was standing; even, balanced. Dean had lost all hope of that ever happening after he woke up to find his leg gone, and yet here he was, defying the odds. _Sammy may just be right after all. Just can't tell him that - gotta keep the kid on his toes._

"Do you think you're ready to give walking a try?" Jennings asked, hoping he wasn't pushing too soon, hoping he was reading his patient accurately.

Dean responded with a slight nod. "I think that would be alright."

"Okay then. Let's go on over to the parallel bars over there and give it a try. Do you think you can make it over there alright, or do you want me to get a wheelchair?"

"No wheelchair!" Dean snapped, more animated than he'd been since they had arrived. He calmed down when he noted Sam and Jennings' shocked faces at his unnecessary outburst. But where the prosthesis just made him feel dependent, wheelchairs made him feel completely helpless. He wouldn't use one unless there was no other way. So he calmed his voice and tried again. "I can make it over there on my own."

"That's fine," Jennings voiced, and he and Sam both began following Dean to the bars as he hobbled along at a reasonable pace, his knee bent at a slight angle to keep the prosthetic off the floor. Once there, he relinquished the crutches to Sam and took hold of the parallel bars, one of the cold metal bars gripped tightly in each hand. He just stood there, waiting, as Dr. Jennings came around to the other side of the bars, crossing between them as he came to meet Dean at his station.

"Are you ready to try a step?"

_No. Damn it, no! What if this doesn't work? What if I've gotten Sam all excited and then I can't do it? I can't do that to him. I can't let him down._ Dean stood stock still, staring through the doctor as he fought for control of his thoughts. He seemed to be in shock, once again locked in his mind as the fear began to gain control.

Sam seemed to sense Dean's fear, somehow knew where it stemmed from, and he stepped forward to provide the necessary comfort. "You're my brother, Dean," Sam whispered in his ear as a comforting hand was placed on Dean's shoulder. "You're my brother, and I love you - no matter what. I don't care if you have one good leg or two; I don't care if you can hunt or not. All I care about is having you here, with me, okay. If you honestly don't want to do this, that's okay, but I can't watch you rot away into nothingness just because you're too afraid to fall. It's okay to fall, Dean. That's why I'm here - to catch you. So just give it a try, Dean. Please."

Dean blinked several times, letting Sam's words sink in. The kid had no idea just how much he'd just hit the nail on the head with his speculation pep talk. Falling equated failure. Failure equated nothingness. Their father had hammered that in - they were nothing if they couldn't be strong. They were nothing if they couldn't hold it together for the fight. It was comforting to hear that Sam would love him either way, but hearing and knowing were two different things. There was only one way to know whether Sam was speaking the truth.

With a determined gaze Dean readjusted his hands on the bar, gripping tighter as he centered his weight over both legs. He waited until confidence was something slightly more than just a fleeting thought, the knowledge that he wouldn't feel totally secure for a long time close in his mind. But what he felt was something; the strength Sam provided him was enough to try his first step. It was a hesitant shuffle forward of his prosthetic leg, moving a mere two inches before he set it down and attempted to lift the good leg. That would be the challenge; could this prosthetic be totally weight bearing. His breath hitched inadvertently as he slowly lifted the right foot an inch off the ground and quickly planted it back down in a somewhat forward position.

The breath he was holding slowly escaped and he saw the edges of Sam's mouth turn up into a smile. "That's it, Dean," Sam whispered, too afraid to voice his enthusiasm any louder for fear that Dean might back off if too much attention was paid to him. "Try it again. Take another step."

Determination sunk in as Dean realized this was more than just a pipe dream. There really was a chance at walking again; there really was a chance at normalcy. He bit down hard on his lower lip in concentration, bracing his arms further down the bars and tried another step, longer this time. And then another. And another. And another.

His gait was choppy, stilted, and there was no question that he wasn't walking on two healthy legs, but it was walking. That's all Sam saw when he watched his brother take his first steps. He didn't see the mass of carbon and fiberglass that gave his brother his newfound mobility; all he saw was the actual motion. He saw the miracle. And in that minute Sam knew there was no way he was letting anyone take that away from his brother. They would have to go through his cold, dead body first.

But then a new question presented itself. Did he appeal to Dr. Jennings humanitarian side? Hope that his desires to help his patients outweighed his desires to make money? Hope that the Hippocratic Oath meant more to him than just a series of words? Or was he giving the man too much credit? It might be easier just to walk out the door with Dean right now and never come back; he had one leg. They could go to another hospital, another place, and get the cosmetic one. There were ways to work this out so that Dean could have everything he deserved to have without risking it being taken away.

In the end, Dr. Jennings made the decision for Sam when he called one of his assistants to come work with Dean as he motioned Sam to follow him. Immediately, Sam was grateful to the man when he didn't say a single word around Dean, but he didn't wait long to broach the subject once they were out of hearing distance. He seemed genuinely apologetic, fearful almost, as though he'd been wracking his brain to come up with some other solution and was maybe hoping that Sam had an answer.

He hesitated when he began to speak, eyes cast downward. He couldn't look Sam in the eye. "Sam, I...uh, I don't know how to tell you this," he began.

Sam helped him out. "It's about our lack of insurance, isn't it?"

Scuffing his toe on an imaginary dirt spot on the tile floor, Dr. Jennings nodded. "I don't deal in payment methods when I speak with my patients," he explained. "That's billing's department. And when no red flags were raised between our first two visits I saw no reason not to proceed with the fittings. But that leg is just far too expensive for the state to pick up the tab."

"I don't understand, doctor," Sam appealed, crossing his arms against his chest. "You designed that prosthetic specifically to fit his leg. It's made completely to his specifications. Aren't you going to lose more money by just taking it away from him? You can't do that."

Jennings' finally looked at Sam, his eyes betraying the contempt he had for state programs and Sam honestly believed he might have a chance with the man. "I wish it were that easy," he apologized. "But the socket is the only specifically molded part of that leg. We can use it with a new, less expensive prosthesis. The rest can still be used for someone else. I wish there was another way, Sam, I really do."

Sam shook his head firmly. _Nononono, this can't be happening. This isn't happening. _"Dr. Jennings, please. You can't do this to him. You don't understand how hard it's been to convince him to try this. You have no idea how depressed he's been. I only just got him to believe that he can have his life back. You can't just rip it away from him as though his life means nothing. He's a person too. He deserves this just as much as anybody else."

"I'm so sorry, Sam. It's not my call to make. I wish it was - I really do."

"I know," Sam answered. And he did know. But he still didn't understand. "But..." he paused, taking a long break to figure out what exactly he wanted to say. "I know we don't have insurance," he began. "We should - I know, but we move around so much it's hard to find a company that will follow us." Sam had no idea if that excuse could even be true or not; he really had no clue how insurance companies worked, but he assumed they required some kind of permanent address so they could collect and make determinations on the medical personnel their clients chose to see.

When the doctor didn't react to Sam's proclamation he continued. "But the thing is, I have some money in the works. You see, our father passed away not too long ago, and he left us some money..." _Good god, I hope he did anyway._ "...but with all the red tape you have to cross with this kind of thing it's been slow in coming."

Jennings nodded, eyes glistening as he listened to what the young man had to say. He was more than willing to hear him out, willing to give anything a try.

Sam glanced through the window of the door to the gym, taking a few seconds to watch as Dean continued to work on the parallel bar. Through his fixed determination, there was no mistaking the slight hint of a smile on his face. _I'll be damned if I lose this opportunity for him. He'd do it for me. _Sam pressed on. "And Dean doesn't know about any of this - he doesn't know about the financial problems we might be facing. I don't want to burden him with that if there's a way to fix this. So all I'm asking is that you give us - me - a little more time. Please. Let him continue to work with the leg, let him practice on it. I promise I will figure out a way to pay for this one way or another."

One look at Sam's pleading puppy dog expression and the doctor melted like butter. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he allowed, speaking slowly as he thought through his options. "Our billing department has only provided me with the preliminary issue. They haven't said anything about putting a halt to the work we're doing with your brother - only to inform you that you need to set up alternative payment options. Let's keep up the work for now, and if anybody asks - you've assured me you're working on it. That should buy you at least another week or two before I have to take more formal measures. How does that sound?"

Sam stood stock still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid even to blink for fear that the man's generosity might have all been one gigantic joke. "You would do that for us?" He finally croaked out. That was definitely a first. As far back as Sam could remember he couldn't think of a single time that a stranger had ever gone out of their way to help him or his family. He was more than used to it being the other way around. But this new concept was overwhelming on so many levels.

"I would do it for any of my patients," Jennings downplayed, attempting to make himself appear more distanced from the emotion than he truly was. He'd made a vow to himself to help Dean in anyway that he could, and he planned to honor that promise. This was truly the least he could do.

For a minute Sam contemplated his next question, wondering if he was asking too much, was he pressing his luck. But the man seemed genuinely eager to help. "Can I ask one more favor of you?" He purposely made his voice sound weak, uncertain, and Dr. Jenning's played right into his hands.

"Absolutely, Sam. If I can help I want to."

"Can...can you not tell Dean we had this conversation? I don't want to worry him anymore than he needs to be. I'm certain I can figure out a way to pay for this, but I'd rather him not know there's any problem. He would drop the therapy in a heartbeat, and I'm afraid he might not start up again."

Jenning's smiled and patted Sam on the shoulder. "No need to worry," he assured the young man. "This will remain just between you and me until and unless the day comes that more action needs to be taken. He doesn't need to know any of this."

"Thank you." Sam let out a long sigh of relief as he allowed the doctor to lead him back into the room to Dean. He and the assistant were just finishing up their work and Dean accepted the crutches to make his way back to the table, taking small baby steps with both feet instead of the single footed hopping trip he'd taken to the parallel bars. Sam swelled with pride, totally taken aback at the progress Dean had made in that short period of time. The fact that Dean, too, seemed to be noticeably less tense made Sam even more certain that he would stop at nothing to make sure Dean knew nothing of the financial issues.

"Everything alright?" Dean asked as Sam returned to his side.

"Yup, just fine," Sam assured, quickly formulating his white lie for the occasion. "Dr. Jennings was just telling me that it may take a little longer for the other prosthetic leg to be made. The guy who does the silicone cover is on vacation and won't be back for another week."

"Oh," Dean answered, looking just a little bit disappointed, but masking it well. "So are you ready to get going?" he asked instead. "We've got a long drive in front of us.

Sam nodded. He'd promised Dean that they could leave directly from the rehab hospital - it would cut a half hour off their drive time. And now that Sam knew for sure how much was at stake he was eager to get moving too. There just had to be money at the end of the rainbow. Sam would have it no other way.


	24. Chapter 24

**_Wow, so I started off this weekend fighting a cold, and then woke up yesterday morning to find that my laptop monitor wouldn't come on. So I rushed right out to by myself a desktop computer so that I wouldn't be without while I send my laptop off to be fixed. (Anything for my loyal readers - haha. Because it has nothing to do with my own personal obsession with my computer and the fact that I went stir crazy in just the few hours it took me to replace the files from one to the other.) Anyway, I'm all set up again, and have finished pounding out this next chapter. I had meant this to be the big reveal, but this trip is taking longer than I expected, and this chapter ended up being the lead in to why they're here. Hope you all approve of the logic behind it all. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!_**

There was something about the town they were headed to that spoke of hope and possibility, made promises for new chances. Independence. _How appropriate_, Sam thought as he steered the old black car down the straight stretch of highway toward their destination. The closer they got, the more convinced he became that they would find something. His father was many things - bastard, dictator, commander - topping the list, but one thing was for certain. The man liked his clues. He lapped up his prophecies. Coincidence was not in his vocabulary. While Dean slept, Sam had had plenty of time to consider these facts and came up with one solid answer. Their father had led them to this town for a reason. He couldn't have known what would happen to Dean, but somewhere along the line he had felt it necessary to give his boys some hope for the other difficulties in their lives. He had chosen to give them back some of their independence.

As the sounds AC/DC album Dean had popped in before he'd dozed off played softly over the speakers Sam looked over to his brother for the thousandth time on that ride, a hint of a smile on his lips as his new found expectations of the town allowed themselves to grow and flourish in his over eager mind. Part of him wanted Dean to wake up so he could share his revelations, but then he would have to explain just why he was so eager to find some money in the first place. Instinct told him to allow Dean to continue sleeping.

Therapy exhausted Dean to the core. He'd willingly relinquished the driver's seat to Sam as they left the rehab center and made a beeline to the Impala, and was asleep in the time it took them to wind their way out of the city and onto the interstate. His head lolled against the window pane, shifting every time Sam rounded a curve or hit a pot hole. Occasionally, a groan or a sigh would escape through his mouth and Sam would glance over to him, smiling as he did so. In sleep, Dean finally appeared content.

In the back seat lay the new prosthetic, cushioned between a discarded sweatshirt and the nylon bag of liners and sleeves. Dr. Jennings hadn't even batted an eye when he told Dean he could take it with him this time, that the adjustments seemed to be right and it was time that he start practicing with it outside of the facility as well. Sam had felt a little guilty as they left, knowing that if this trip to Independence was a bust they wouldn't be returning and the generous doctor would be down a lot of money. But he had maintained a stoic face, never giving anything up - to Dean, or to the doctor. He had noble intentions to return.

The only word of caution Jennings had voiced to his patient was not to overdo it. He had forced his insistence with a stern cautionary eye at Sam, only releasing his firm gaze when Sam nodded his acceptance of the task. Dean was only to wear it for an hour at a time - at most, and only two or three times a day to start. Too much too soon could cause swelling and irritation, and put Dean back to square one before he had even begun to make noticeable improvements.

So Dean had removed the prosthesis once they were in the car, taking care to treat the new equipment with as much love and attention as he did his weapons and his car. Sam had noted the hint of reluctance Dean had over taking it off so soon after the prosthesis had proven itself to not be the enemy Dean had feared it was. Dean's actions had always given him away much sooner than his words, and Sam wondered how long it would be before Dean would verbally admit that the prosthesis wasn't so bad.

The first road sign for Independence came into view, announcing the distance to be only nine miles away. Sam looked down at his watch, surprised that it was just past five o'clock. They needed to find a place to stay and get some food before anything else, maybe turn in early so they could get an early start on the hunt the next day. If he was honest with himself, Sam had to admit that he was scared. Sure, their father had gotten them as far as Independence, but from there Sam had no clue where they were headed. It wasn't a standard hunt; the local newspaper's had nothing in the way of odd occurrences and supernatural happenings going on in the area. From everything Sam could tell it was just normal, ordinary, Boringville USA when it came to the hunt. Which, on the one hand, was perfectly fine with Sam. He didn't want this to be just another hunt, didn't want to be getting his hopes up just to find that their father had simply sent them on yet another meaningless salt and burn in the grand scheme of things. But on the other hand, he was out of clues, and maybe if there was some kind of something to hunt in the area he could let himself believe that it was guarding something; something valuable. But where the hell did they go from here?

He chose not to wake Dean until they were actually sitting in the motel parking lot. Dean needed all the rest he could get. And he seemed so calm and content when he slept - Sam was still a little afraid that Dean's mood might not hold steady when he was awake, and he rather liked watching his brother smile. But the motel parking lot was the end of the line, and it was finally time to see if the mood would stick.

"Dean, wake up," Sam whispered, shaking his brother's arm gently. Dean stirred, another groan emitting from his throat as he batted Sam's hand away.

"Five more minutes, Sammy."

"No, now Dean. We're at the motel. I've got us a room already," Sam insisted.

Blinking rapidly and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Dean finally sat up. "We're already here?" he asked groggily, looking around for just a minute before he became fully cognizant. "I slept for the whole ride?"

Sam chuckled at that. "Like sleeping beauty."

"Wow, man. I'm sorry."

"Not a problem, dude. You were tired. Besides, I got some thinking done while you were sleeping."

Dean perked up at that, eyeing Sam curiously as he collected his crutches from the back seat and prepared to climb from the car. He waited until they were both out and heading to the room, bags slung over Sam's shoulder, before he questioned it.

"So did you figure anything out? Any clues as to what we're looking for?"

Sam shook his head. "That's not exactly what I was thinking about," he hedged. "I honestly don't know where to go now that we're here."

"Then what exactly were you thinking about?" Dean pressed.

"Nothing specific," Sam insisted as he slipped the key into the lock and opened the door to their room. "It was just nice to have some quiet time to think."

"About me," Dean filled in, challenging Sam to tell him otherwise.

Sam cringed, but chose not to deny the accusation, just soften it. "Yeah, of course about you. And about me. And Dad. And a whole slew of things that haven't gotten my attention in a long time. Don't read more into it than you actually have to."

Dean's gaping mouth closed slowly in defeat. There was a time that he would have pushed further, argued harder. He knew there was more to Sam's proclamation than he was letting on, but getting Sam to open up pretty much meant he would be forced to open up as well, and Dean didn't have the energy for that. It was so much easier to just drop it.

"Sorry," he finally offered under his breath as he removed himself to the bathroom to freshen up.

"Dean, it's not..." Sam began, but ended up giving up the protest as his words were met with the slamming of the bathroom door. He hated the polar levels of Dean's mood; one minute his brother was happy and positive, the next moody and despondent. He wished there was a way to get through to the man, but Sam was at a loss for how. His only hope that this new mission of their's, as innocuous as he hoped the hunt would be, would somehow succeed in bringing life back into his brother's soul.

When Dean returned from the bathroom several minutes later, Sam was nervously sitting at the foot of one of the beds. He looked up expectantly as his brother emerged, attempting to read his face for signs of where the evening might be headed.

"You want to look for something to eat?" Sam asked hesitantly. He held his breath as he waited for the answer, knowing he'd just asked a loaded question as he thought back to the last time he and Dean had ventured out for food.

Dean shrugged, cautious himself as he considered his answer. Trying not to appear too over-eager, he casually shrugged. "I guess I could try the leg again. Maybe I won't get as many stares."

Sam nodded once, merely an indication of having heard his brother's words, before he made his way out to the car to collect the equipment. His wide grin only found a home for the time he was out of Dean's sight, returning itself to its original aloofness before Sam walked back through the door.

"Need any help with this stuff?" Sam offered, as he handed over the leg and bag to his equally poker-faced brother.

Dean shook his head slowly, the gears churning already as he replayed the first two times he'd worn the prosthesis and exactly how it had been put on. "Naw, I've got it."

Ten minutes later had Dean changed out of the exercise pants Sam insisted he wear to therapy into a pair of Jeans, the prosthetic firmly attached to his residual limb. As he'd done before, Dean tested the weight bearing capabilities of the combination hesitantly, as though he feared a different response without Dr. Jenning's presence.

When he was certain it was alright, Dean took a few hesitant steps, leaning heavily on the crutches as he did so, and ended up staring at himself in the large half mirror in the cubby beside the bathroom. From the distance he maintained, he could see the majority of his frame and he studied it critically.

"If you don't look hard, you almost can't tell it's fake," he whispered apprehensively, eyes shifting away from Sam as though he feared his brother to give him an opposing response.

Surprised at the comment, Sam glanced down at Dean's legs, noting the way the jeans fell. The right leg was more filled out, the heavy material catching at the top of Dean's calf muscle before continuing to cover his shoe, but aside from a slight concaveness to the lower half of the left Jean leg there wasn't much to indicate a difference. The only thing that seemed off, to Sam, was the presence of tennis shoes in place of his brother's usual steel toed boots. But he supposed that would come in time - when their weight wouldn't pose an additional challenge in relearning to walk.

"Can't imagine anyone will notice," Sam honestly reassured the older man. Adding, "If anyone asks why the crutches - not that they will - we'll just tell them you pulled a muscle or something."

Dean nodded, his uncertainty fading away at the conviction in Sam's voice. "Then I guess I'm ready to go."

xxxxxxxxxx

Despite Sam's registered assurance to Dean that no one would know, no one would stare, he found it very difficult to convince himself of the same concept, his overprotectiveness of his brother shining through tenfold. He glared at the hostess as she led them to a table in the center of the room, daring her to say something, do something, that might make Dean feel less of a person. He made constant scans of the room, eyeing each of the patrons as he fought the feeling that the laughter from the corner booth was aimed at Dean, that the whispered conversation across the aisle was about him. But if Dean noticed any of this he didn't say anything, probably because he was too busy performing his own survey of the room.

It wasn't until after the meal was eaten, the check paid for, and they were on their way back to the car that Sam finally managed to convince himself to relax. A loud sigh, releasing the breath he'd been holding for what seemed like an hour, escaped his throat before he was able to suppress it, and Dean glanced at him from across the top of the car, no doubt knowing exactly what the action was in response to. _Damn it_, _Sam, get a grip. Dean's not ready for you to lose it now._

Dean waited until he was seated in the car to say anything. And then thought better of it and waited until they were at the mouth of the parking lot. And then until they were at the end of the street. _How do I tell my little brother that I appreciate him looking out for me - that I know he was still so nervous of what people would do or say in there, but he tried so hard not to let on. How do you say thanks for keeping your mouth shut? _He was a man of few words, at least few that said anything close to resembling feelings, and even just the little bit of gratitude he felt for his brother was difficult to convey. But when they made it to the entrance to the motel parking lot he finally found the nerve. "Thanks, man..." It wasn't much, but it was honest, and heartfelt.

Sam did a double take, blinking quickly as he cut the engine and looked over at his brother. "For what?"

The older man wasn't looking at him. His eyes were directed down at his lap where his hands lay entwined together, twisting and wringing desperately in his nervousness. _What did I do to deserve thanks?_ For the life of him Sam couldn't think of anything he'd done, unless you counted worrying needlessly, and lying to his brother - reassuring him that things would be fine when Sam himself couldn't believe that.

"For helping me get through this."

_This what? This meal? This day? This whole fucked up nightmare?_ "I haven't done anything," Sam insisted. He fingered the keys nervously, pulling them halfway out of the ignition before shoving them back in - over and over.

"You believed in me when I didn't believe in myself." _God what the hell is wrong with me? This is the second chick-flick conversation I've started in less than two weeks. _"You've been patient, and understanding." _And my mouth is running like a freakin river during a flood. _"I couldn't have asked for a better support system in all this."

"I didn't do anything you wouldn't have done."

And Dean had nodded at that, accepted it as the end to the conversation, not because he fully believed its truth but because he didn't want to push the moment further. It was awkward enough as it was, and his arguing Sam's reasoning behind his presence would get them nowhere. He would tell Sam that it was over and above, and Sam would counter that Dean had been there for him countless times in the past and he was just repaying the favor. The argument would never be won by either party because neither was willing to accept their own sizeable role in each other's lives. Neither would admit that he was nothing without the other and everything with - but in their hearts they both knew it to be true. And that was enough.

"So what's the plan for tomorrow?" Dean asked, abruptly changing the subject before he found himself weeping over a box of tissues with his teary eyed brother at his side. "Tell me you have some idea what to do next."

"I figure our best bet is to hit the library first thing in the morning. Start looking at the town history and stuff like that. I told you before, there's nothing supernatural going on in this town. I have no idea why Dad would have sent us here."

"There's got to be something," Dean insisted. "Dad always had some sort of motive."

Sam couldn't argue with the logic, but he couldn't give a reason for it either. So he responded with a shrug as he realized they had never extracted themselves from the car. "I don't want to think about it anymore tonight," he answered, pulling the handle on the door to open it. Fresh, cool air invaded the car, and they both breathed in deeply as the aroma of clean small town air washed over them. "Tonight, I want to be normal. I want to take a real shower and sit down and watch a movie and pretend that neither one of us has a care in the world."

Dean mirrored Sam's actions to get out of the car, smiling as he did so. He could do that. For one night, he could forget himself in the comfort of normal living; the normalcy of being back on the road with his kid brother. For one night, he could go back to being Dean Winchester, big brother extraordinaire, and enjoy himself with Sammy. "Sounds like a plan I could get used to," he agreed.

And they did just that. The movie was mindless drivel, just the perfect touch to fully remove themselves from the harsh reality of the world and instead immerse their haggard minds into comedy so obscure there wasn't a chance any of it could be grounded in reality. Each laid in his own bed, but as close to the center edges as was possible, never fully wanting to relinquish the nearness that they both relished and yet loathed to divulge to the other. And both fell asleep to the background of the television as the movie ended and the late night talk shows came on.

It was relaxing, calming - the kind of night that cleared your mind from all external thought processes, the kind of night that made long forgotten events come clear as day. And maybe that was what was meant to happen; maybe that had been the plan all along - some unconscious master plan on Sam's part. Because somewhere along the way he'd gotten a pretty clear idea that Dean knew more about the town's importance than he was letting on; but that those facts had long ago slipped his memory when their father's quest for the Demon had taken precedent.

Whatever the reason for their relaxed evening in, though, didn't matter. What did matter was that sometime in the middle of the night when he was at his most relaxed, Dean had a dream that called forth a memory. And he woke up suddenly, the dream still fresh in his mind as he reached over and turned on the light, calling softly for Sam to wake up as he did so. Sam's groggy eyes blinked frantically as he tried to focus on Dean's face, his foggy mind having trouble deciphering whether the look on his brother's face was that of desperation or excitement. He looked pointedly at the clock, and then back at Dean. _It's three thirty in the morning, dude. _But he never got to voice the thoughts out loud as Dean's excitement - and was that also confusion - finally got the better of the older man.

"I know what we're supposed to find here!"


	25. Chapter 25

**_So here we go, the big reveal. I struggled with trying to figure out a way that John might have left them money without actually 'leaving' them money - because come on, let's get real, no way in hell that John could have done so well for himself in his nomad lifestyle that he would have had anything significant to leave to his boys. I truly hope this meets with all your approval. Thanks so much for reading! _**

"I remember, Sam. I know what we're supposed to find here!" Dean repeated, sitting himself higher on the bed as Sam did the same, the younger man's eyes finally reflecting awareness.

"You remember?" Sam was confused. He hadn't expected this to be a case of remembering anything. And if Dean was able to remember something about this town why couldn't he?

"I've been here before...we, have been here before."

"We have?" _Where the hell is he getting this? I don't ever remember coming here._

Dean remained patient, aware that he wasn't entirely making sense. "I wouldn't expect you to remember. You were just a baby."

Reassured that he wasn't completely losing his mind, Sam breathed a slight sigh of relief, yet cocked his head at Dean in search of a greater explanation.

"I just don't know why I didn't remember this sooner. I just–"

"Dean!" Sam snapped impatiently, no longer willing to try to filter through his winding thought process.

Dean's head jumped up, pulling from his thoughts as he looked innocently at Sam. "Yeah?"

"Just get to the point."

"Grandpa - mom's father - live's here. Or at least he did way back then. We came here when you were just a few months old to visit him."

"We have a grandfather?" Sam asked, as though the concept was utterly impossible. But then again, why shouldn't they. Just because he'd never known about him, or even been privy to a conversation about him - or any grandparent for that matter - didn't mean that he didn't have grandparents. His parents had to come from somewhere.

Chuckling a little at the surprise in Sam' s question, Dean nodded. "Yeah, Sam. We actually have four of them."

"I know, I just...how come no one ever talked about them? Why didn't we ever visit them?

Dean shrugged. "Mom's mother died when she was pretty young, and I don't really think her father approved of the lifestyle Dad chose for us after Mom died. I don't think Dad's parents really approved of it either. Dad never really talked about any of them much, but I can sorta remember these loud arguments he would have over the phone to someone - about us. I guess it was Mom's father, because he never called him Dad, but he referred to us as 'your grandkids.' I think the old man wanted us to come live with him, and Dad didn't want to split the family up."

Well that didn't help Sam's confusion one bit. "So if Dad and Grandpa had such a huge falling out, why would he have sent us here? Wouldn't he have wanted to keep us as far away from the man as possible?"

"I'm sure Dad never intended for us to know about a grandfather unless he wasn't around anymore. Just like he never meant for us to get into the bank box unless he was gone." Dean hesitated, looking down at his hands quickly as he waited to find out how his revelation would affect Sam. The topic of their father's death was still touchy, and he had never been this blunt about the fact before.

But Sam seemed far from interested in dwelling on his father just now. "So we have a grandfather - a link to Mom." His lips turned up into a hint of a smile at the prospect of finding some more family out there that he had never known about. It still surprised him that in all this time, all these years, he had never once wondered about grandparents. The thought had never crossed his mind.

"Yeah, I guess. But what that means for this search, I still don't know."

"Well I'd guess if we find our grandfather, we'll find out why we were sent here." For a minute Sam's eagerness disappeared as another thought invaded his mind. They still needed money. What if this was really just their father's way of making up for never mentioning the man before. Maybe this was him simply finding a way to reintroduce his sons to a man they barely knew existed. What if there was no money at the end?

He quickly suppressed those feelings, though, forcing himself to ignore the possibility of failure for Dean's sake. He'd been hiding so much about this hunt from his brother - what was one more fact?

Dean had never seemed to have even noticed Sam's break from reality, too busy was he searching for the phone book hidden somewhere in the bedside bureau. "If he's still in town, he should be listed in the phone book, right?" Dean asked, grabbing the book from the drawer and pulling it into his lap.

And Sam realized he didn't even know the man's name. Hell, now that he thought about it, he didn't even know their mother's maiden name. "What name are we looking for?"

Damn, the bubble burst. Dean paused, his hand frozen on the folded phone book, just seconds from letting the pages fly in search of the man. _Pappy_. That's all he'd ever known the man as. It was the only name he remembered, and he shrugged. "Shit, Sam, I don't know."

Not to be deterred, Sam prompted the search. "Well start with mom's maiden name. That will narrow it down some."

Dean shook his head. "Damn it, I don't know. I don't think I ever knew."

Sam let out a sardonic chuckle, well aware that he was about to go into hysterics. "How does that happen?" he cried, arms flailing as he jumped from the bed and began to pace. "How do we spend our entire lives avenging Mom's murder and not know such simple thing about her. How can we know that some supernatural entity murdered her in cold blood and not know what her maiden name was, or what her parents names are. How the hell did our lives get to be so screwed up?"

Not knowing whether to laugh or to cry at Sam's totally rational outburst, Dean simply stared. The phone book dropped from his hands, sliding off the bed and landing with a soft thud on the carpeted floor. _Crap, that's scary how right Sam is._ _How did we overlook such important facts about our own mother?_

"Well?" Sam pressed when Dean failed to answer right away.

"I don't know," the older hunter finally replied, his voice low and uncertain. "It's messed up, though. You're right about that."

Silence followed as each brother thought on the major revelation; on the facts of this hunt; on the idea that they had had a family out in the world for so long, yet neither one had ever really known. There was a connection to their mother, one that should have helped to lessen the pain, one that very well could have changed their lives if their father had considered listening. And yet, they had no idea how to even find him.

"I guess we just have to start searching through records - maybe we can find a marriage license or something. At the very least we know Dad's name, so if we can find connections to him, maybe we can find out our Grandfather's name." Sam's suggestion was a sound one, and was met with an affirmative nod of Dean's head. Although the older Winchester also seemed a bit deflated as he glanced over to the clock.

"It's only quarter after four," Dean bemoaned grudgingly. "I doubt the courthouse opens until at least eight, and that's where we'll find all the records we need. The only thing we can do now is try to get some more sleep.".

xxxxxxxxxx

Sleep never came easy for the Winchester boys, but on that particular morning it was exceedingly difficult. For another couple hours, both Sam and Dean had lain in the dark, each silently going over the facts in their heads. They had both remained completely still, each trying to be totally quiet for fear that he might wake his brother, but as the first rays of dawn began streaming through a crack in the curtains, it became apparent that sleep had been a luxury afforded neither one of them in the remainder of that night.

Sam rose first, announcing his intentions for a quick shower as Dean nodded, head resting tiredly on his arm. When Sam emerged twenty minutes later, Dean collected himself, hobbling into the bathroom for his own shower. A silence had fallen over the room; not altogether uncomfortable, but clearly contemplative, each brother trying to make sense of the new revelations on the case.

"You want food before we go?" Sam finally interrupted the deafening silence as he noted with disappointment that it was still only seven am. _Damn! Still an hour to wait._

Dean shrugged in answer, his mind working over time not only on going to the courthouse, but on his leg as well. Knowing Sam would be a natzi on the issue of wearing the prosthesis, that he would likely keep a mental timer as to how long he'd had it on, he realized he would need to bide his time. "Let's just do a drive through and come back here to eat."

For a minute, Sam feared Dean had already reverted back to his fear of th epublic eye, and the look he shot his brother conveyed that fear. But Dean was quick to defend his suggestion, dispelling the fear in one fell swoop.

"I just want to get to the courthouse as soon as possible, but I don't want to waste what little time I have to work with the prosthesis on sitting in a restaurant. If we get take-out and come back here, I still have time to put it on before we go over to look for the records."

"Alright, sure," Sam finally agreed, relieved that Dean had a logical explanation. "Let's get going."

The timing was perfect; and at five minutes to eight, Sam and Dean were back on the road heading over toward the center of town where they knew the courthouse to be. Dean was driving once again, and he couldn't help but smile as he noted the old worn spot in the carpet, now finding itself hope to the foot on his prosthetic leg. In a very cliched move, he had popped Back in Black into the cassette deck, prompting Sam to roll his eyes heavily into the back of his head, but secretly, he was pleased that Dean was beginning to feel comfortable in his life.

They courthouse was easy to find. Its ancient stone structure loomed large and eerie cozied up among several decidedly more modern buildings, and Sam couldn't help but wonder if there might just be a few ghosts haunting the halls of the building. He glanced over to Dean as they both got out of the car, eyeing the man with apprehension. Suddenly he wasn't so sure he wanted to find out about a grandfather; wondering what they would do from that position. It wasn't like it would be easy to just walk up to the man after all these years and announce themselves to be his grandkids. _And how 'bout some money for us while you're at it, old man._

But they pressed forward, chins held high in mock strength and bravery as they made their way across the street to the couple hundred year old structure. For a minute, Dean contemplated attempting the narrow, steep steps, wondering just how well the calibrated ankle really worked while at the same time despising the symbolism of the more modern ramp twisting up the side of the building. But a firmly placed hand on his shoulder steering him away from the stairs had Dean grudgingly making his way toward the ramp.

"Better to reach the top victorious rather than to stumble halfway there," Sam insisted quietly, cringing as he considered what could happen if Dean tripped on his way up. He knew without a doubt in his mind that Dean would have insisted in attempting to actually walk up the stairs, and it wasn't that he doubted Dean's abilities, he just doubted his knowledge. Dr. Jennings had yet to work with him on stairs, ant these stairs were scary at best. Sam almost felt nervous considering tackling them with two good legs, so steep and scary were they. He cringed to think what it would do to his brother if he failed on his first attempt.

Once inside, though, was another story. Leave it to their own version of bad luck - Winchester style - to find the ancient elevators marked 'Out of Order' and the records room of the courthouse to be two floors down in the dank basement of the old stone building. The interior stairs, if anything, were steeper and more narrow, and Sam's stomach churned as he noted the winding quality and the downward slants worn into the wooden steps. They creaked as the boys made their way down, Sam slowly leading the way as he braced himself against the rails in anticipation of a potential slip and fall from his determined brother. Dean had refused Sam's assistance, but had at least agreed not to attempt to step on the leg until he had had the opportunity to work with Jennings on that.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief when they made it to the bottom fully intact and no worse for wear, and he picked up his speed as he led the way down the hall to where the records were stored.

"Where should we start?" Sam finally asked, after the records clerk had pointed them in the direction of the catalogued records, offering locations for each of the varying departments. If he had to guess, the gears had been turning in his brother's head during the tense silence through the stairwell. He quickly discovered he was right as Dean immediately shot out his answer.

"Wedding records. You normally get married in the bride's hometown, right? So it's pretty likely that Mom and Dad got married here. We should look for them."

Nodding eagerly, Sam quickly started after his brother and the wedding records. They missed it the first time, flipping just past the paper that announced their parents nuptials in the old and musty collection of records. Something encouraged Dean to go back and look again, and he practically ripped the form from it's location in his excitement.

"This is it, Sam. Their wedding license." He ran a finger slowly over the type-writer recorded announcement, suddenly feeling closer to his mother just by seeing the newfound information on paper. One look at Sam, and he knew his little brother was feeling the same sense of connection.

"Her name is Angelli," Sam breathed out in a hushed whisper. "Like angel."

"I always knew she was an angel," Dean whispered back, the rare moment of sentiment going unnoticed as he continued to stare at the yellowed paper. He found himself reading far too much into the coincidence of the naming, began wondering if maybe there was something to it. Angels and Demons. Good versus bad. He wondered if maybe his mother, their mother, had been put on this earth to serve a higher purpose - to protect Sam from the monsters. Wondered if maybe she had appeared to them back in their house not as a spirit, but as an angel. But as quickly as the thoughts came to him Dean forced them out of his mind. It was too far-fetched; too impossible. Why he found it so much easier to belief in evil than in good, Dean would never truly know. But that was the way it was.

The moment of silence, of remembrance, passed slowly. But eventually it had to end, and as was often the case, Dean chose to break it with an abrupt shift in conversation. "Hey, look there. Her father's name is on the license, too. Anthony - we're looking for Anthony Angelli."

Sam glanced over at Dean, surprised at the sudden turn in his voice an attitude. All of a sudden he was talking as though this was just another case; as though it didn't mean one single thing to him. But after hearing the choked up response about their mother being an angel, Sam couldn't help wondering if Dean might be over compensating for something. "You alright?"

"Huh? Oh...yeah," Dean nodded, not a hint of conviction in his voice. "I'm just eager to get this over with. I want to know why the hell we're here."

Unable to argue with that logic, Sam pushed his thoughts aside with the idea that Dean never quite seemed like himself anymore. There was a much deeper issue at stake when it came to Dean's emotional state, and the musty basement of a two hundred year old courthouse was hardly the place to be airing that laundry. "So I guess we just move onto the residency records," Sam agreed. He closed the drawer, replacing the marriage certificate in its rightful spot before doing so, and followed Dean several rows over to continue their hunt.

Once again, finding the information was easy now that they knew what they were looking for, and Sam pulled the residency record on their grandfather out from its spot with shaky hands. This was it - their last stop, the last link in finding the long lost relative. After this, there was no turning back; no convincing themselves that they didn't know where the man was and, therefor, couldn't talk to him.

He held onto the paper for maybe just a little too long, both excited and fearful for its contents and unable to decide which held the stronger bond. With a loud, frustrated sigh, Dean reached over and tore the page from Sam's hands. "What does it say, Sam?"

Dean held out the paper just far enough that Sam could look over his shoulder, and together they scanned the list of three addresses within Independence, Kansas. The first two had a start date and an end date associated with them; but the third only held a start date. 2003–????

"So that must be where he lives now," Sam acknowledged, voice still hedging on the brink of indecision. Excitement or fear.

"Yup. Let's go." Dean wasted no more time reading the records or hanging out in the dark basement, instead turning and making his way from the room as quickly as possible. Sam dogged his heels, hovering closely as he made tedious progress back up the stairs before backing off as they made their way from the building to the car.

A quick glance at the map and Dean was quickly heading through the town to their address of choice. Five minute later, they pulled up in front of their destination, somewhat disappointed at where they were, but still hopeful.

"You're sure this is the right address?" Sam asked, looking up at the multiple storied Nursing home that stretched in front of them.

"Positive."

"You think he's even going to know who we are - I mean, you think he'll remember that we ever existed?" he prompted nervously.

"I guess," Dean replied, not nearly as confident as he had been seconds earlier. "Not every one who goes into nursing homes has some kind of dementia. I guess we'll just have to go in and find out."

So they did; nervously making their way through the front door to a check-in station across the entrance hall. Sam hung back, allowing Dean to take the lead. His mind was constantly working overtime as he worried over his desperation for this search to be successful. They needed the money - _Dean_ needed the money.

It hadn't escaped his notice that Dean seemed so much more confident while wearing the prosthetic; that he wasn't nearly as concerned with people's stares - and rightly so as it was apparent that fewer people did stare while he modeled two complete legs. That, in and of itself, gave Sam an even great amount of desperation at finding a way to pay for the prostheses. So he was far from happy when his thoughts returned to the aide speaking with Dean, hearing her reply in answer to his request to speak with Anthony Angelli.

"I'm sorry, sir. You won't be able to speak with Mr. Angelli."


	26. Chapter 26

**_So here's the deal, guys - this is short because I've been out of town for the last several days. But I feel bad keeping you waiting any longer. The ending isn't a cliff hanger, but it's not a great ending either. However, I figured you would rather have something tonight rather than have to wait for another day or two. In exchange for the length, I'm going to wrap up this trip portion in the next chapter, so that should all be resolved. Hope you enjoy!_**

The sadness in the young aide's eyes was real, sincere, and neither Dean nor Sam had to hear her explanation in order to know what she was about to say.

"I'm so sorry, boys. You won't be able to talk with Mr. Angelli. I'm afraid he passed away a couple of months ago."

Sam felt his heart clench agonizingly tight in his chest. _Nonono, I take it back. I want to meet him. I want to know him._ His fear over meeting the old man disappeared instantaneously, only to be replaced with an impossibly painful feeling of loss and mourning. "He can't be dead," Sam blurted out before he realized he was even talking. He hadn't even realized that he had jumped in front of Dean in his haste to defame the announcement she had made. "We were sent here to talk to him."

A haze of confusion passed over the aide's face momentarily before she was back to her professional demeanor. "I wish the circumstances could be different, Mr..."

"Winchester," Sam supplied. "And this is my brother, Dean."

"Mr. Winchester," she continued. "Like I was saying; I really do wish things were different. We all loved Mr. Angelli. He was one of a kind."

Determined to press on with his challenge on the state of their grandfather, Sam opened his mouth once again to protest. But Dean was quicker, jumping into the conversation as the first bit of sound passed through Sam's throat.

"How did he die?" Dean asked, the strength in his voice much greater than he felt.

Looking at the two men skeptically, the blonde shook her head apologetically. "I'm sorry. I'm only allowed to divulge that information to family. It's HIPPA policy - you understand." The plea in her eyes indicated that she truly hoped they did understand.

"We are family!" Sam shouted just a little too loud, too panicked, for the situation. She wasn't a hostile witness, just someone who was legally obligated to withhold private patient information. She had no reason to know the two young men in front of her were the long lost relatives her past patient likely never talked about.

Dean flinched at his brother's tone, but couldn't help but feel the need to do the same. He held his tone even though, willing to give her a second chance before losing his own temper. "Sam, chill out," he hissed, before turning on the young woman. Brushing off the now dusty Dean Winchester charm he flashed his best smile, a combination of 'Excuse him,' and 'you know you want to talk to me,' with just a little 'you know you want to sleep with me,' mixed in for good measure. It felt weird, trying to be cocky and self-assured when he still felt so much the opposite. But sometimes a Winchester had to do what a Winchester had to do.

"I'm sorry, miss, I didn't get you name." Another grin slipped out from force of habit, and Dean was just a little surprised to see the young woman actually melting at his dimpled gaze. So surprised, in fact, that he almost missed her reply.

"Heidi," the aide replied, suddenly shy.

Dean cocked his head, turning his ear toward her as if to ask - _Please say again? I didn't hear you the first time._

And she repeated it a second time as Dean made a point to listen this time. "Heidi." Adding "McLanahan," as though giving the last name would make such a difference.

"Heidi." Dean rolled it around on his tongue for a minute as he reveled in the sudden increase of his confidence level. But he returned to the business at hand soon after, reminding himself that - even if he wasn't missing a leg that would undoubtedly be revealed during a quick romp - business came before pleasure. He launched into an explanation, staying as close to the truth as possible without divulging any supernatural elements. There was no telling what kind of information they already knew of the deceased man's history, and Dean couldn't take the chance that the stories would clash.

"Mr. Angelli - Anthony," he added as though to show he knew something of the man as well, " is our grandfather; our mother's father."

"I've never seen you around here before," Heidi accused with a hint of suspicion, although still maintaining a level of flirtation in her actions. She had a job to do, and she planned to do it, but she was still only human - and female at that.

"Well that's just it," Dean continued. "We never knew about him until just the other day. You see, our father died recently and we found information on our grandfather as we were going through Dad's things. I suppose they had had some type of a falling out or a misunderstanding years back, and Dad just never thought it important to mention him."

"Why didn't your mother say something?"

This interrogation was getting too intense, Sam realized. The gears in his brain were working overtime as he listened to the edge in the girl's voice. _She knows something,_ he concluded. _She knows something about an inheritance or whatever. That's why she's being so difficult. _He couldn't stop himself. Dean's explanation was getting them nowhere.

"Look, our mother died years ago - when I was just a baby. And dad was so distraught he just took off with us - didn't want to have anything to do with the past. But when we found out we had a grandfather, we wanted to find out more about him. You know, get to know him. So can you help us out or not?" The first part was spoken in desperation, but the last line was snapped as Sam's patience lost significant ground. The more he watched Dean, most recently seeing his big brother interact with this woman, the more determined he was to get those legs for his brother. And death, as much as it pained him to think about their grandfather dying never having the chance to get to know him, death meant inheritance. Death meant money. This could work to their advantage.

Heidi blinked, uncertainty clouding her sparkling eyes. "I'm so sorry," she said again. She seemed to like that word - sorry. It rolled off her lips far too often. "That must have been awful for you." And she was back to looking at Dean, a hidden message being shot over to him that she would love to help him get over the pain of losing so many loved ones.

"We're just asking that you tell us some things about him," Dean broke in again. He shot daggers over to Sam, ordering his impulsive brother to shut up and let him handle this. He wasn't sure where the determination to step forth was coming from - it wasn't like he'd been so forthcoming with his body and his emotions lately - but as long as it was there, Dean planned to utilize it to every inch. "Please," he added for good measure.

Seeming to give that a thought, Heidi eyed Dean seriously as she chewed on a nail. "What did you say your names were again?"

"Dean and Sam Winchester," Dean answered, not sure what that had to do with anything, but willing to play along if it got him somewhere.

Holding up her right pointer finger for 'one minute' she nodded contemplatively and turned around. "Hold on, I'll be right back." She disappeared down the hall, leaving Sam and Dean to stare wordlessly after her in wonderment.

"Where do you think she's going?" Sam dared to ask.

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe they put Grandpa in a cryo- chamber and she's running down the hall to bring him to us. We could even take a family picture with the man."

Sam wasn't sure how to react to his brother's snark, and he finally chose not to say anything in reply as he turned his head to hide the smile that he was unable to suppress. Little by little, his brother was finally coming back. And finally, there was no mistaking the flashes of 'Deanisms' that shined through more and more each day as his confidence leaked back in. Sam was aware that the final destination was still a long way off, all to conscious of the fact that Dean may never return in full, but he could deal with what _was _returning. This was beyond great. Now if only they could make the leg work for them...

When Heidi returned a few minutes later she was carrying a small envelope in her hands, her smile glowing bright as she stared at the brothers. "Good news," she offered, continuing to talk only to Dean as she flirted. "Turns out Mr. Angelli had mentioned you two a couple of times. Many of us were privileged enough to sit in on his stories of his family, and there was a time or two that he mentioned his two grandsons that he never knew."

Both brothers breathed out a sigh of relief at knowing she was willing to believe them to be legitimate. Although the thought was somewhat bittersweet; in being mentioned, it indicated that the man cared about them. And yet, they had never gotten an opportunity to meet him.

Heidi continued on. "Why don't we go have a seat. I can tell you a little bit, but you should probably go talk with the estate lawyer, too. He would be able to give you some additional information."

They followed her to a lounge, sitting down in the offered chairs and listening intently to her recollections of the grandfather they had never known. She had pictures, relatively recent ones, of a wrinkled yet sturdy looking man taking part in some of the rowdier activities the nursing home provided: horseshoes, shuffleboard, croquet - which she explained was a part of their annual summer games tournament. He looked happy, and not anything like a man about to kick the bucket.

"What did you say he died of?" Sam demanded. "He looks totally healthy."

Heidi didn't seem fazed by Sam's bluntness, and finally gave him the answer he'd been seeking. "He was healthy," she assured him. "He was only living here because he was lonely and didn't want to be dealing with the house upkeep anymore - he stayed in our assisted living housing."

"So then what was it?" _And what the hell is with people and their roundabout explanations. Just get to the damn explanation. _

"An aneurism; brain aneurism. It came on so suddenly. One day he made some off hand remark about having a headache, and the next day..." she trailed off, feeling it unnecessary to clarify what the boys already knew. Even for her, the word was so harsh, so final.

"Oh," was all either Dean or Sam was able to utter for the longest time, as they went back to staring longingly at the pictures. They were too late, but only by a matter of a few months. How cruel was that.

"Like I said, though. You should really speak with his estate attorney. When I went to get these pictures, one of the nurses said she thought your names might have been mentioned in the will. Mr. Angelli - your grandfather - he didn't have a lot of family."

"And how to we find him?" Sam asked, just a bit too quickly, and Dean found it necessary to backhand him against his biceps to shut him up before he managed to scare away their only link to assistance.

"You'll have to excuse my brother," Dean apologized genuinely. "He's been a little too focused on finding out information on our grandfather ever since we found out about him. He really wanted to know more about our mother - you see, I at least got four years with her, but Sam here never knew her."

Heidi was instantly drawn back in, soaking up the sob story like a sponge. "That's horrible...to never know your mother; to have lost her at such a young age."

"Yeah, well, it's pretty much all we've known." Dean explained. "We've dealt with the sadness, but we would still love to know her; to know what she was like." His tone left no room for question that he wanted no sympathy, and that the conversation was over. They were ready to move on and finish their search, and Heidi's's small talk was no longer appreciated.

She seemed to get the point, and with a shift of her hip dropped the conversation. "So I guess you'll be wanting directions to the attorney's office," she offered with no further ado.

**_And just one final note: I know there was this big lead up to the grandfather, and now he's gone. My intention was never to create a new character, but rather to have a way for them to find some assistance. I feel as though I can do as much emotionally on th etopic of a grandfather without ever having him in the picture, but it stands to reason that he might have insisted they come be near him if he were alive, and I like the Bobby/ Missouri dynamic we've got going on. Hope that doesn't disappoint. And for those of you who figured out he was dead before - kudos. You all are too smart for your own good. Thanks for reading!_**


	27. Chapter 27

**_Alright, so now you get to find out what was left to them. Took me long enough to get there, I know. Hopefully you won't be too disappointed. I added in a little easter egg of a conversation just for some additional enjoyment. Hope you like it. Thanks once again for reading!_**

Armed with a name and a location, the Winchester boys thanked Heidi for her help and left the nursing home. "It shouldn't be too far," Dean offered, calculating the distance with the map of Independence he had already stored to memory.

"Great," Sam smiled. He looked at his watch and the smile faded as he realized they had been out for close to an hour and a half already. One glance at Dean, he could see his brother was trying to hide a grimace every time he put pressure on his leg, and he realized he had to put a stop to the charade. "Maybe we should go back to the motel for a bit first. Rest, take a load off."

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean lied easily. Anyone would have been convinced by his reassurances. Anyone, that is, but Sam.

"You're not fine," Sam insisted. "And besides, it's been over an hour already. We go see that lawyer and that will go well into three. Maybe longer."

"I said I'm fine," Dean growled out, heading to the driver's side with an exaggerated limp and a wince.

"Dean, you heard what the doctor said. You go too long too soon with that thing and you're libel to injure yourself more. I can see you're already hurting."

"I'm always hurting," Dean snapped as he slid into the car. "I had my fucking leg tore off by a bear trap. But this," he tapped the socket of the leg lightly, " this isn't doing anything. I'm fine."

"Dean, you're–"

"About to smack you silly if you don't shut up and leave me alone," Dean assured. "Now just drop it."

Sam's mouth clamped shut tightly, as though he wouldn't be able to keep it closed if it wasn't firmly sealed. He crossed his arms across his chest and pouted for a full two blocks before he decided to drop the issue. If there was one thing he knew about his brother, it was that he only learned from experience. And as much as Sam hated to see his brother in pain, the only way he chanced to convince Dean not to overdo it was to let him overdo it and pay the consequences.

But he also noticed something at the nursing home that he had to bring up, and now was as good a time as any. He started cautiously, unsure how Dean would take it, and figuring he wouldn't be eager to discuss it. But he also figured it would ultimately boost Dean's confidence, and that was enough to make the chance worthwhile. "So, that girl...Heidi...she was totally flirting with you, dude."

Dean's eyes left the road to glance over at Sam, glaring at him for the few seconds he dared look away. But he didn't say a word.

"Oh, come on," Sam prompted in exasperation. "You must have noticed it. I know you're not that blind to a woman's advances."

Shrugging, Dean replied in borderline nonchalance. "She was just feeling us out, Sam; trying to figure out if we were trustworthy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, don't sell yourself short. She was totally throwing herself at you. If we'd been there five minutes longer I think she would have asked you out."

"What the hell are you talking about Sam? She was just doing her job. She never looked twice at me." _And why the hell would she?_

"No, Dean, she never looked twice at _me_," Sam insisted as Dean took a turn a little too fast and he had to reach out and grab the suicide handle to keep himself upright. "When are you going to start believing that you're a desirable man, Dean. People will always have their prejudices, but the right woman isn't going to care about your leg."

"Yeah, well our lifestyle doesn't allow me to take the time to meet the right woman. All I have is time to meet _a _woman. One in this bar, one in that...and those women are only about appearances. You don't sleep with someone for one night because you think you have potential for a meaningless relationship; you sleep with them because you think they're hot. Because you think they have an incredibly hot, sexy body. Those kinds of women are gonna take one look at my leg and turn tail and run the other way. Too much baggage."

"Dean–"

"No, Sam, that's the way it is. I know that's how I'd react, so I can't expect them to be any different."

"How the hell could you possibly know you'd react that way?" Sam demanded, turning his entire body to face Dean. "You're one of the most compassionate people I know - the way you are with kids, people mourning the loss of loved ones–"

"Yeah, well not when it comes to sex," Dean muttered.

Sam had to lean in to hear, to understand, and it finally hit him. "It's happened to you," he whispered, in awe of the amount of things he was learning about his brother.

In his voice was remorse, but he spoke only the facts, as though it had meant nothing to him at the time, and probably still wouldn't if things had gone differently for him. If he still had his leg. "I was twenty-three. Dad and I were stopped for a week in Galveston Texas and I went out to the bar, hooked up with this real cute chick and we spent about a half hour in a booth at the back of the bar just - you know, making out and shit. Then she suggested we go back to her place. So we went, and we made it as far as the living room before she had her shirt and bra off, and then I undid her pants, and bam, there it was."

"She had a prosthetic leg?" Sam finished, knowing the answer. So he was surprised when Dean shook his head, laughing cynically as he did so.

"Hell no, Sam. That's not the half of it. It wasn't even as bad as a prosthetic - all it was is a pump; a little square plastic box strapped to her hip with a wire lead going into her stomach. She had diabetes - it was for her insulin."

Sam looked incredulous, but closed his mouth quickly as he realized now was not the time to berate Dean on morals and ethics. "So what happened?" he asked instead, when everything in his being wanted to tell him he never should have been so thrown by such a trivial thing.

"What do you think happened? I froze. All of a sudden she just wasn't sexy anymore. I couldn't get my mind past the box, and it pretty much ruined all libido action. So I left."

"So you had one bad date - it probably just made you nervous because you weren't expecting it," Sam reasoned, hoping to downplay the scenario and convince Dean it wouldn't happen to him.

"So you're saying that I won't be rejected if I walk up to the girl and tell her flat out?" Dean snorted, switching his voice into a mocking tone. "Hey darlin, I'm Dean and I have a false leg, wanna make out? Uh uh, Sammy, no way. Not gonna happen."

"I'm not saying you make it the first thing out of your mouth," Sam protested. "I'm just saying it shouldn't become some great big secret, either. And not everyone is going to take issue with it - hell, some women will probably find it alluring. Women like a wounded soldier."

Dean flinched, but tried to hide it as he grew tired of this line of conversation. "Sam, please, let's just drop this. I'm not ready - pushing me into it too soon isn't going to do either one of us any favors."

It was Sam's turn to flinch as he noted the tone of accusation behind Dean's suggestion. _Because when you pushed me into going to the diner too soon that really turned out well, didn't it. _"I'm sorry," he was quick to voice, finally turning back to the road and realizing they were stopped in front of the attorney's office. "How long have we been here?"

"Not long," Dean monotoned, climbing stiffly from the vehicle. He gripped tightly to the crutches, suddenly allowing the pressure of the swelling in his leg to come to light. He wasn't about to let Sam know his meddling had been pertinent, but god his leg was hurting right now. Maybe Sam wouldn't notice if he just stayed off the leg for the time being.

Sam did notice, but he was oh for two on the wise counselor front and he didn't dare go for three right now. Not when they were so close to finding out what, if anything, this trip would yield for them. As long as Dean stayed off the leg he wouldn't say a word.

The attorney's office was an old house turned office, and a small wooden sign out front read 'Walter F. Hadley, Attorney at Law.' As they approached the entrance they were once again faced with a set of stone steps, yet Sam managed to keep his mouth shut as Dean focused his efforts on climbing them one step at a time. He did, however, manage to maneuver himself directly behind Dean in case he happened to fall. He didn't, and Sam let out a long sigh as soon as the danger was over.

"You can stand down, soldier," Dean groused as he reached for the door handle. "I'm not made of glass. I won't break."

So his efforts hadn't gone as unnoticed as Sam had thought. Damn. "Sorry," he mumbled, suddenly feeling like a little kid who had gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He _really_ didn't want to get into another fight right now. They had more important things to deal with right now.

Finding themselves in an empty hallway, they each took a side in search of where to go. A receptionists desk sat in what was probably once the living room, off to the right side, and Sam motioned for Dean to follow him in there. The receptionist sat with her back to the boys, humming away as she filed her nails vigorously. Her platinum blond hair was pulled high onto her head in a messy ponytail, and from what they could make out of her legs she wore a very short skirt.

"Excuse us," Sam spoke hesitantly.

The receptionist jumped, startled at the intrusion on her afternoon beauty ritual, and she turned quickly. "My goodness you two are stealthy, aren't you," she exclaimed, one hand planted firmly against her heart. "You just about scared me to death." Getting a look at her from the front, it surprised both brothers to see she was significantly older than they had expected - a sixty year old with a twenty year old's wardrobe.

"Sorry about that. I hadn't realized we were being overly quiet," Sam apologized, although, how she had managed to miss Dean's crutches clunking against the hardwood floors he wasn't sure.

"Not a problem, young man. Now, what can I do for you?"

Sam looked back at his brother, realizing Dean had reverted once again to his introverted mood. Apparently their little conversation had done more harm than he'd initially realized. His heart dropped, but he proceeded anyway. Backing out now would do no good to his brother. "We were hoping to speak with Mr. Hadley," he explained. "Apparently, he was in charge of my grandfather's will. We were just hoping he might be able to give us some more information on our grandfather."

"Uh huh, uh huh," she nodded, not really caring about the particulars as she tapped away at the keyboard keys while scanning her screen. "Well, Mr. Hadley is in a meeting with a client right now, but if you don't mind waiting fifteen minutes or so he should have some availability."

"We'll wait," Sam agreed immediately, pulling Dean off to the side where he had already spotted a couch to sit on. "Just let us know when he's ready," he added anxiously.

His knee immediately went into nervous bouncing mode, and Dean let it go on for a full two minutes before his hand reached out in exasperation, clamping tightly onto Sam's knee to bring it fully to a stop as he eyed him questioningly. _What the hell is going on with you?_ His gaze asked.

Sam clamped his mouth in response, not willing or able to explain his actions. Instead, he took to staring at the face of the large grandfather clock seated on the floor across the room. The time moved ever so slowly as he watched it go by second by second, and he found himself lost in a haze of oblivion by the time the receptionist called for them.

"Sam," Dean hissed in annoyance as he elbowed him hard in the ribs. "We can go in now. Come on, get up."

Apparently, as Sam had been lost in thought, watching the time slowly pass, Dean had been studying the receptionist carefully because as they left the room to in search of Mr. Hadley he leaned into Sam and commented, " Dude, mid-life crisis much?" He grinned evilly as he nudged his head back in the direction of the woman, and Sam couldn't help but smirk back as he nodded in agreement.

"Severe mental issues," Sam agreed as he led the way down the hall toward the room they had been directed to.

The fifty something lawyer with a severe comb-over met them at the door to his office, eagerly shaking both their hands and registering their names before ushering them into his office and urging them to sit down. "Now, boys, what can I do for you?"

This was it. This was what Sam had been waiting for as soon as he had discovered the key sketch in his father's journal. This was the opportunity he'd been praying Dean might have from the minute he found out they couldn't afford the care and accessories his brother so desperately needed to feel whole again. Yet suddenly, he found that he couldn't speak anymore. This was the moment he'd wanted, but he feared it might not reveal what he had been hoping so fervently for. And the fear he had was overpowering.

It was Dean, once again, who jumped in, feeling as though he were on a level playing field as he sat face to face with the lawyer, any indication on his missing leg impossible to see from behind the huge oak desk the man sat behind. "We're here about our grandfather," he began, and then launched into the same story they had told at the nursing home, adding the part they had learned there.

As Dean spoke, the lawyer seemed to be drawn into the story, his eyes speaking with recognition as though he knew parts of this story, as though he had his own version of what he was hearing. And when Dean finished, the man leaned back in his chair, scratching his chin contemplatively.

"I was wondering if we would ever hear from you boys," he finally voiced, a hint of a smile on his face. Sam finally let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"So you believe us?" he pressed hesitantly. "You know us?"

In answer, Hadley raised a finger - _one minute_ - and rose from his desk. He disappeared from the room, and stayed gone for a long time. Too long in Sam's book as he quickly returned to his prior nervousness.

"Where do you think he went?" he finally asked, twisting around in his chair in search of the man's presence for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"I don't know, Sam," Dean replied testily. Geez, his kid brother was getting annoying. When had he become such a spazoid in the waiting department? Sam had always _always_ been the level headed one of the duo - he'd never been the one to jump to conclusions, he'd never been the impatient one. Sam could wait for hours to find out the simplest things. Hell, geek boy had practically grown up in libraries, pouring over the boring texts for hours at a time without so much as a squeak of boredom emitting from his lips. Yet here he was, going crazy because a lawyer had dared to make them wait for a couple of minutes while he retrieved something from another room.

"You don't think he's calling the cops or something? Like, maybe he thinks we're imposters or something?"

_And irrational thoughts to boot?_ _What the hell? _"Sam, chill out, will you?" Dean demanded. "He'll be back. He probably just went to get the file."

Sam nodded nervously, his head bobbing too quickly as he tried to convince himself that Dean was right. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. That must be it."

"It is," Dean growled. And as though in answer, Mr. Hadley returned to the room carrying a large file.

"I'm sorry to keep you boys waiting. This was in a box under several others. It took me a bit to get down to it."

Dean turned pointedly to Sam. _See?_

Hadley, leaned back in his chair again, sifting through the file as he spoke. "In answer to your earlier question, Sam, yes - I do know who you are. I've actually known about you boys for quite some time, I just was never able to locate you."

"We move around a lot," Sam answered, finally regaining his voice as hope seemed to return yet again. He just hoped this was it, he wasn't sure if he could handle another let down.

Brushing the comment aside with a wave of his hand, Hadley continued. "Mr. Angelli came to me years ago with an odd request. It wasn't that the outcome was all that odd," he added quickly, "just that his reasons were somewhat odd. He told me about how his son-in-law - your father, I assume - had taken off with his grandson's against his desires. Said he had cleared out his bank account, as well your college accounts and was spending all the money on some...odd...things that he didn't approve of, and he wanted to set aside some money for you boys in case you might need it some day. But he didn't want to just set aside money, because he didn't want your father to be able to get his hands on it."

Sam's eyes widened as he realized he was finally hearing what he had hoped to hear, while Dean wavered back and forth over feelings of loyalty toward their father, feeling the need to defend his reasons to clear out the accounts. But at the same time, he could understand his newfound grandfather's reasons behind locking their father out from any money he might have left Sam and Dean. He wasn't sure which emotion was stronger, but this wasn't the time to worry about that, and having feelings - for or against his grandfather - wasn't going to change the outcome.

Hadley continued. "So we ended up putting the money into a bonds for the two of you, under the stipulation that they could only be cashed with your signatures. They've been maturing for well over twenty years." From the file, he pulled out two stacks of papers, each held together by a thick binder clip and set one in front of each of the boys.

"I've been getting a monthly statement for these bonds ever since we started them. The top one is the current value."

Somehow, Sam managed to widen his eyes even more as he calculated the grand total of their two bonds. "There's almost sixty thousand dollars between the two," he hissed in amazement. He'd never seen that much money; never possessed even close to that much; never dreamed he would. That was more than enough to cover the prostheses and the therapy, and if they were lucky there might even be some left over for something fun. A vacation, maybe.

Beside him, Dean sat in equally stupefied astonishment, completely unable to believe that anyone would bequeath him such a large sum of money. To Dean, he had never deserved anything, and certainly not sixty thousand dollars worth of anything. "We can't accept it," he found himself whispering.


	28. Chapter 28

**_It seems as though every weekend lately I've been super busy or had some craziness happen. This weekend my sister is in town, so I haven't had an opportunity to reply back to the reviews, but I did find a few minutes to proof this chapter and post it. Just know that once again I really really appreciate all your kind and thoughtful reviews and comments. I eagerly read every last one of them. Thanks so much. Hope you enjoy this chapter as much as you have the others. You all are far too kind. _**

Sam was back in the driver's seat, sitting rigid and tense, one hand clenching tightly to the steering wheel while the other held equally tight to the twin envelopes holding the information to their deeds. He hazarded a glance over to Dean, finding his brother still sitting in the same position he'd fallen into just after he huffed out to the car from the attorney's office. Shoulder's slumped, arms in his lap - hands face up, eyes straight ahead but seeing nothing.

It had taken everything Sam had in him to convince his brother that they were deserving of the money their grandfather had left them, despite his protests to the contrary. And even then, he knew Dean had finally given in only because he was tired of arguing in front of a perfect stranger. Dean had been quick to insist that they didn't even know the guy, and for all intents and purposes they had practically abandoned the man.

_We didn't even know he existed,_ Sam had protested. _How can you possibly blame yourself for something that Dad kept from us. If our grandfather wanted to leave us some money for the future, he had every right to do so. And his reasoning was sound. Besides, Dean, he's dead now. He can't take it back, so why shouldn't we have it?_

It had taken saying those same words over and over again, changing the tone, to finally get Dean do agree. Although, it was really less agreement and more relenting as Dean had huffily asked the attorney if they actually had to cash out the bonds just because they took the paperwork. It was only after the man had assured them that they never had to be cashed if that was what he desired before he was willing to offer a grumpy '_fine. We'll take the damn deeds_.' He had yet to seem accepting of it, and he wouldn't talk about it. And upon returning to the car he hadn't even made an attempt to take the driver's seat before slumping in the passenger seat. Sam had noticed Dean biting his lip to keep a yelp at bay as he pulled the prosthetic from his very swollen stump, and Sam had winced right along with him, but said nothing. Instead, stopping at the nearest gas station on their way out of town and collecting a bag of ice, silently tossing it at his sullen brother before pulling onto the main road. To Dean's credit, he merely rolled his eyes once before making use of the ice.

More than half the ride was spent in utter silence, without even the crooning of the radio to keep them occupied. And then, as though a switch had been flipped, Dean came back to life and worry dominated his features as he turned his body toward Sam.

"What the hell is going on with you?" Dean asked quietly, keeping his voice level.

Sam practically gave himself whiplash, his head swivelled so fast to meet Dean's eyes. "Nothing," he protested too quickly as he looked back to the road again before Dean could watch his face and read his eyes. "Why?"

"You haven't been yourself since I...since I...since Algonquin," he pressed, unable to say the words he'd tried to voice. "And you look about ready to twist that steering wheel into a pretzel you're holding it so tight." Dean tried to make his voice sound light and easy, _talk to me Sammy, I can help, _but there was still a hint of _if you hurt my car, I swear..._

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm fine."

"Really?" Dean looked skeptical about the response, and Sam could feel his brother's eyes boring into the side of his head. "Because you've been tiptoeing around me for the last several weeks as though I might break, and then just a few days ago you started getting all jumpy, too. You can't tell me nothing's wrong."

"I can, because I am. Just drop it, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes, complete exasperation over Sam's denial written plainly across his face and in his voice. "You're a terrible liar, Sammy. You know that?"

Sam pursed his lips and stiffened, keeping his eyes focused stubbornly on the road.

"Now, you're either gonna tell me what's going on, or I'm gonna have to beat it out of you. What's it gonna be?"

Still no response from Sam, unless you counted the tightening of his fingers over the steering wheel, and Dean sighed audibly.

"Pull over, Sam," Dean growled.

Sam gave his head a single firm shake, no.

"I said pull the car over," Dean ordered again, reaching over to grab the steering wheel. The car veered dangerously to the right, sliding into the soft gravel of the shoulder before Sam regained control.

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam cried out in protest. "Are you trying to kill us?"

"I'm just trying to get you to wake up. I want to know what's going on with my brother - you're really starting to scare me."

"Yeah, well, I can't tell you," Sam spat back as he finally stopped the car and put it in park.

"What can't you tell me?" Dean challenged.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"Dean, please!" Sam snapped, finally having enough. His hands clenched around the door handle and he pushed it open in one swift move, climbing from the car and stomping off.

The door slammed behind him, and Dean winced for his baby, sending a mental apology to the metal beast before gathering up his crutches from the back seat and climbing unsteadily from the car. The ground was soft and uneven, and he found that he had to plant the poles carefully to keep from taking a nosedive. And because of that, Sam managed to put quite a bit of space between himself and Dean before he finally turned around and noticed the older man teetering determinedly towards him.

Sam glared at his brother, hollering, "Just go back to the car, Dean!" before turning around and continuing to stomp off down the road. Thoughts ran through his mind like a streaming marquee. How did it come to this? What would he tell Dean? How would his brother react to knowing he'd been lying to him for all this time? He felt justified in doing so, but only as long as he didn't get caught. But now, with Dean as firm as he was in his conviction that they didn't need the money, didn't deserve the money, Sam knew the truth would have to come out sooner or later. Apparently it was going to come out sooner. Today in fact. But he felt he needed a little more time to process.

"Please, Sam, just talk to me!" he heard Dean call from behind him. It sounded muted and muffled from the distance he'd gained, but he could still hear the desperation in Dean's voice. Not long after, he heard his brother cry out, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood erect. _That didn't sound good._

Finally, Sam turned and came face to face with nothing. No Dean. His eyes scanned the area, and then dropped low to the ground.

"Shit, Dean!" he cried, breaking into a sprint to more quickly cover the great distance he'd made between them as adrenaline pumped through his blood. It's not that Dean appeared to be all that injured, although he was laying flat and spread eagle on the ground looking pissed as hell, it's just that this was just one more thing for Sam to feel guilty for. Because if he hadn't been storming off Dean wouldn't have felt the need to follow him and he wouldn't have fallen in the first place.

By the time Sam made it back to Dean, his brother had already pulled himself into a sit and was grabbing for his crutches as he brushed the dirt off his pants and jacket. He looked pissed as hell, and ready to kill, and right then Sam knew he had reached the end of his rope. Dean knew something was going on with him, and like a vampire tracking a scent Dean wasn't going to let down for anything now.

_God, Dean. I'm so sorry. I've just made a mess of this, haven't I?_ Sam knew better than to ask Dean if he was okay, but it took every ounce of effort he had to close his mouth and hold the inquiry in. Instead, he plopped right down in the dirt next to the enraged hunter as though it were the most normal thing in the world to be sitting in the middle of a mound of dirt on the side of the highway, and clearly Dean had meant to do so. He did a quick scan of his brother's body, searching for any sign of injury before allowing himself to breathe. Once again his eyes fell to the stump of a leg, covered by the flopping extra material of the jeans Dean hadn't pinned up when he removed the prosthesis, and guilt overrode him. That was the cause of this whole thing; the lying and the deceiving and Sam's obsessive need to come up with money. Except, he couldn't blame this all on Dean's leg - that was just the outcome for something else Sam had done, something Sam just couldn't stop blaming himself for causing.

For several minutes they just sat there in silence, side by side, watching the few cars zoom past. Some slowed as they drove by, curious onlookers intent on discovering why the car was pulled off, but not willing to stop to offer assistance. And that was just fine with the brother's.

"I can't help you if you don't talk to me." Dean's voice was low, sad, almost apologetic as he finally broke the silence. "And I really want to help you, Sammy."

Sam reached his hand out to the side, grabbing a handful of dirt which he then tossed away as he thought on what Dean was saying to him. But he didn't speak, and Dean continued.

"I can't help but think this has something to do with the money, or with money period; I'm not really sure. But you've been awfully dead set on finding cash somewhere. You're not...in trouble, are you?" His voice lowered at the last part, as though it were too terrible to fathom. Sam had never been the gambler or the hustler in the family, preferring to make money the old fashioned way whenever possible. But then again, Dean hadn't exactly been fulfilling the big brother role very well lately. Truth be told, he had been so busy wallowing in his own self-pity that he really didn't know what Sam had been up to in the lat many weeks. How was he to know if Sam hadn't felt it necessary to go to extremes for cash.

"No, it's nothing like that!" Sam exclaimed, immediately reading Dean's thoughts and knowing his brother was assuming the worst. "It's just...it's nothing. I can't tell you, Dean."

It was killing him to keep this secret, but he would have just as big a fight on his hands trying to convince Dean that they should spend the inheritance on _him_ as he would convincing him that they were worthy of the money in the first place. Damn Dean and his feelings of unworthiness. He could kick his ass for that sometimes.

"Sam, I'm sorry."

Sam's eyes widened at that, and he finally looked at Dean, incredulity written all over his expression. "What on earth do you have to be sorry for?" He demanded.

Dean shrugged. "I haven't been a very good big brother lately, Sam. Something is clearly eating away at you, and I've been too preoccupied to notice. Maybe if you had been able to come to me sooner you wouldn't be feeling as though you can't talk to me now."

"That's not it, Dean," Sam protested. "You've had a lot on your plate lately. You have no reason to be apologizing for worrying about yourself. I think I would be more concerned if you _didn't _take the time to worry about yourself."

"But I still should have made time for you're stuff, Sam," Dean insisted. "I'm really sorry about that."

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam exploded. "Why can't you let me worry about _you_ for a change. That's what I'm trying to do here, and you're not making it very easy!" _Shit! Did I just say that out loud?_

Dean latched onto Sam's declaration immediately, and now that he knew whatever was bothering Sam was about him, it was all over. Sam slouched in defeat. He just couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.

"If this is about me, you need to tell me!" Dean exclaimed, as anger began to fill in around the edges of his concern. He crossed his arms against his chest and held firm in stalwart determination to elicit a confession out of his little brother.

Sam stalled for another minute before finally giving in. Resistance was futile. "It's about your therapy. And the prosthetic legs. We don't have the money to pay for them...well, we didn't at least until we found out about those bonds."

Confusion was Dean's immediate reaction, quickly followed by betrayal and insult. "Why didn't you use one of the insurance cards?"

It was all Sam could do not to shoot Dean a look of '_how stupid are you?'_ before he answered. "I didn't know how long we would be staying, but I knew it would be long enough for the fraudulent numbers to become an issue. We couldn't risk it."

"Then I shouldn't have been doing the therapy in the first place. I shouldn't have been fitted for a leg."

"And that logic right there is exactly why I didn't tell you that any of this was going on. I knew you would refuse the help if you didn't think it was covered, and you needed the therapy. You deserve that leg. Both of them."

Dean shook his head as he looked solemnly down at his lap. "Not at the lengths you were willing to go to get them. Hell, Sam, that day when you told me you would rob a bank for me I thought you were joking. But now I'm not so sure."

Sam flinched, the memory of his very vivid dream popping up fresh in his mind. He put a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, tugging softly to get him to look up, to look Sam in the eye. "Can you honestly tell me that you wouldn't have been willing to do the same things for me?"

Dean didn't hesitate. "Of course I would. I would do anything for you, Sam. But this is different."

"How?" Sam challenged, jumping to his feet to appear more intimidating. "How is this different? How is me doing something to help you not okay, but you doing the same things for me totally acceptable?"

"It just is," Dean answered with all seriousness in his tone.

"It's just bullshit is what it is. You _have_ to stop sacrificing yourself for everyone else, Dean. It's not fair to you and it's not fair to me!"

That got him. "How is this not fair to you?" Dean asked, once again his only focus to make sure Sam was happy. Sam knew he would pick up on that.

Sam sighed dramatically. "Do you think I enjoy seeing you in so much pain? Do you think it's easy to watch you withdraw into a shell and hide from the world just because of what you think they'll say to you? Because I don't Dean. It tears me up inside to see you going through this. God, Dean, I would crawl to the ends of the earth if it meant I could give you your leg back. And since you and I both know that's impossible, the least I can do is make sure you get the best therapy and the best prostheses available. And I fully intend to give that to you."

"Sam, you said yourself that we can't afford it."

Sam shook his head, sitting back down again, but this time directly facing Dean. "I said we _couldn't _afford it. We can now - with those bonds. There's plenty of money there to pay for everything. And we'll probably have money left over, too."

"We can't take the money, Sam. We can't cash those bonds."

"Why not, Dean" Sam demanded. "Because you said so? Because somewhere along the line you decided that you weren't deserving of anything good in this world, so clearly you shouldn't be allowed to take this money? Give me a break!"

"It doesn't feel right."

"Well you need to make it start feeling right. Because it's our money - money _our_ Grandfather saw fit to leave for us years ago. If we don't take it who will? It's not like he's going to miss it."

"You just don't get it, Sam. I–"

"No, Dean, _you_ don't get it," Sam cut him off. "It's okay to need help every once in a while. It's okay to ask for it. And this - this money - there's no reason why we can't accept it and there's _really _no reason why we can't use it on you. I can't think of a better way to spend it."

Dean's eyes fell to the ground and he stayed silent as he unconsciously played with the edge of his shirt. A lone tear began to form in the corner of his eye, but he wiped it away as quickly as it came, erasing any sign of it's presence before whispering, "I can."

"What? How?" Sam sounded incredulous and worried and maybe even a little pissed off before he even heard where Dean's mind was straying to, and the emotions only got worse when he did hear.

"You could use it for college, Sammy. That would probably go a long w ay toward law school - I know it can't be cheap."

Sam huffed in frustration. "Even if that's where my mind was at right now, you honestly think I could make it all the way through law school in good conscience knowing I was spending the money we could have used on a prosthetic leg? God, Dean, sometimes I don't even know where you get some of this stuff."

"It's what you want, Sam."

"No, Dean. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Right now, what I want is for you to be happy. I want you to feel whole again."

"Attaching a piece of metal to my body isn't going to make me feel whole," Dean protested.

"Maybe not," Sam agreed, "But using it will. You think I didn't notice how much more confident you were just in the small amount of time you've worn it so far. That, to me, is worth it. You're worth it, Dean." There was so much conviction in his tone it was hard to argue with the logic, and Dean finally accepted defeat when he heard it.

"That's honestly what you want to do with the money?" he questioned, still unsure of himself, but now the tiniest hint of excitement pushing its way through.

"There's nothing else even on the radar," Sam assured him, looking him straight in the eyes for confirmation. "You're important to me, Dean. Your happiness _is_ my happiness."

Dean nodded slowly. "Alright, if you're sure. We'll look at numbers when we get home."

It wasn't exactly an agreement, but Sam knew it was the best he could do under the circumstances and he was willing to take what he could get at that point. This was by far better than what he had expected to get out of Dean. "I can live with that."

He stood, brushing the dust off his jeans before reaching out both his hands to haul Dean back up, surprised when Dean accepted the offer without so much as a snarky comment, and even more surprised when Dean pulled him into a firm hug once they were both standing. Dean's arms wrapped around Sam's shoulders tightly, his arms locking against Sam's back so they were cheek to cheek.

Sam had no intention of pulling away first, and Dean allowed the embrace to go on for close to a minute before he broke the silence of the moment. His breath came out hot against Sam's ear as he spoke the firm commandment, leaving no room for argument and every indication that he was back strong and hard in big brother mode.

"I'll use the money, Sam. But only on one condition; and if you bail out on this I swear to god I'll stop at the nearest lake and toss the damn things into the center."

He waited to continue, and Sam nodded his agreement to the terms before ever hearing them.

"You have to stop blaming yourself for this accident, you got me? This wasn't your fault. _I_ stepped in that bear trap, not _you_. _I_ decided to hike into those woods, not _you._ I have a mind of my own, Sam, and no matter how stupid I think some of these ideas are that you have I wouldn't be going along with them if I didn't want to. So you've gotta quit with the guilt. Is that understood?"

He held on tight, the hold becoming equal parts hug and coercion, as he waited for affirmation from Sam. It took a while before the younger brother was fully able to voice that agreement, and he choked on the words as they came out, but he finally allowed them to come. He would do anything for Dean, anything to make him feel worthy of this generous and unexpected gift they were left, and if that meant letting go of the guilt he figured he could do that for Dean.

"It might take a while," Sam warned, "but I'll let it go, Dean. I promise."

Dean nodded, and released his hold on his brother, suddenly feeling empty as their connection was broken. He found he wasn't quite ready to break their bond and he found himself reaching up to clamp onto Sam's shoulder. "I'm gonna use you to get back to the car. Those crutches aren't worth a damn on this soft ground."

Sam smiled, eagerly stepping into the role as he slowly led Dean back to the car and helped him in before returning to retrieve the abandoned crutches. He climbed back into the car and started it up, allowing himself one last glance at his brother before pulling back onto the road. It was as though a weight had been lifted from both of them on this trip to their grandfather's hometown, and Sam realized he would be forever grateful to this man he'd never met, because somehow he had managed to bring Dean back to him. It was the first time since Dean had been hurt that he actually believed that they would be alright.


	29. Chapter 29

**_I figured you guys might want just a tad bit more stuff 'n fluff before I go back to therapy and healing. Although, I suppose you could call this chapter emotional healing. I don't expect you to think the jokes are funny (although it would be nice if you did), just know that I'm really not a funny person and I can't tell a joke to save my life, so unfortunately that will come out in their own sense of humor as well. I tried to get it as close to the brother's type of antics and humor as I possibly could. Thanks so much for reading. You guys are all awesome!_**

A quiet peacefulness settled over the car as they made the rest of the journey back to Missouri's house. Dean seemed unrelenting in the gentle massage of his swollen leg, but while he no longer attempted to hide his discomfort, he managed to push past the pain to revel in the emotional healing that was taking place between the brothers. There was still a ways to go before there were laughing and bantering and pulling practical jokes without forcing it or thinking about it, but that time would come soon enough. For now, though, just knowing they were both healing and ready to focus every available effort into the final stages of Dean's therapy was enough. And if one looked close enough, you could see the small smiles tugging at the lips on both faces, unable to break free into a frown any longer.

"We're close," Sam finally announced as he pulled off the highway and into Lawrence. He looked over to Dean, who looked back, smiling.

"Think they missed us?" He asked, referring to Missouri and Bobby who had been left alone in their absence. He wondered just how much of the outside of the house would look different in the day and a half they'd been gone, knowing there was no way Bobby would have done anything less than occupy his time completely. The man had clearly never been totally comfortable in Missouri's presence and Dean often wondered if, like himself, Bobby feared her insistence to poke and prod through his mind as though it were her own personal gold mine.

"I think they missed me," Sam answered, popping his brother lightly on the shoulder as he tested his receptiveness to some lighthearted teasing. "You - I'm not so sure about."

Something sparked in Dean's eyes and he flashed a wry smile at his brother, eager to encourage his brother's attempts. "How could anyone miss my charming personality?"

Sam snorted. "I don't know, Dean. Moody, broody, sullen - it's a winning combination."

"You haven't been all that much better," Dean rebutted. "Mr. 'I carry the weight of the wold on my shoulders whether I had anything to do with it or not.' It's a wonder Missouri hasn't smacked you upside the head with all the crazy thoughts you've been carrying around with you."

"What can I say, bro? I'm a powerful entity - lot's of responsibilities and all..."

They both smiled, glad to finally be able to joke about each other and about the past several weeks. It felt good. Right. Made them feel whole.

The car stopped in front of Missouri's house and for the first time in a long time there was no preparatory breath before climbing from the car, no ominous look shared between the two. Dean merely reached back to the seat behind him and retrieved the crutches before opening the door and hauling himself up. He worked his way to the front door while Sam remained behind to collect their luggage and the prosthesis, but he waited patiently for Sam to join him before entering the house.

Missouri and Bobby appeared from separate corners of the house to greet them, both slightly apprehensive at what might meet them at the front door. But it didn't take psychic powers to assess their moods. They were happy, content, and Missouri beamed when she realized this, racing forward to pull the boys into one giant squeeze.

"Looks like you two might have some good news," Bobby observed less ostentatiously as he moved forward to relieve Sam of some of his load.

Sam nodded, grateful to get rid of the armful. "He left us some money, so there's no problem with Dean's therapy now. Everything is finally falling into place."

"That's wonderful," Missouri crooned, as her eyes traveled to the stack of items Bobby was currently placing at the base of the stairs. She locked in on the carbon prosthesis and her eyes did a combination brightening and darkening at the same time. She hadn't seen the device yet, and it still saddened her to think Dean would always be reliant on it, but she was still encouraged by its presence.

"Dean, baby, is that your new leg? Can you try it on for Bobby and me - show us how well you're doing with it?"

Biting his lip, Dean shook his head. "I'm still sore from this morning," he apologized, angry at himself for being so stubborn and not listening better to the doctor's orders. "I'll show you later, when the swelling goes down."

Immediately, Missouri transformed into nurse mode, pulling Dean to the couch and plopping him onto the cushions. "Let me see," she insisted as Dean began to protest "Have you put any ice on it for the swelling?" She hadn't even seen the damage yet, and already she was forcing her ministrations on him.

Shaking his head 'no,' Dean turned pleading eyes on Sam, but Sam was as curious as Missouri was to see just how bad it was. He wasn't sure if Dean's newfound affinity for the truth came from their most recent heart to heart, or if he was in serious pain, because Dean's normal reaction was to hide his pain with everything he had. So instead of sticking up for the man as Dean had hoped he would, Sam kneeled down beside Missouri and helped her to pull Dean's jeans up above the residual limb.

The stump was red and clearly swollen, and Sam couldn't hold back a moan for his brother as he took in the result of Dean's stubbornness that morning. "Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?" Sam demanded.

Without saying a word, Dean managed to convey his feelings to Sam. _Why the hell do you think I didn't say anything to you?_

Sam sighed audibly as he slid his hand over his face. "I'll get you more ice."

By the time he returned with a bag of crushed ice and four ibuprofen tablets Missouri and Bobby had already managed somehow to get Dean to turn sideways on the couch and prop his leg up with a couple pillows. Sam forced the pills on his brother, handing him a glass of water to wash them down with, as he rested the ice on top of the most swollen part of Dean's leg.

Dean rolled his eyes at the three people hovering over him. "I'm fiiine. Really," he insisted yet again, drawing out the 'i' in his aggravation. "I just overdid it a bit today."

"Which is exactly what Dr. Jennings warned you against, and what I tried to stop you from doing," Sam rebutted. "Now would you stop being such a baby and just use the damn ice?"

"Fine," Dean growled out. "I'll use the ice. But I'm not sitting here all afternoon. One hour," he insisted, staring his brother down. "One hour with the ice pack and I'm done."

"What, you've got something better to do today?" Sam questioned, his mouth turning up in a half smirk. "You got a date or something?" The question was clearly forced by the time Sam got out the last few words, as though he had started to say it without thinking and then realized he had to carry it out to the end whether he liked it or not. That particular bit of ribbing may have come too soon in this healing process, especially after what Dean had admitted to him earlier in the morning. But in spite of the recent argument over the ice, Sam had come to believe they had made a great deal of progress after their roadside heart to heart and the question just slipped out before he could stop it. He held his breath, waiting to see how Dean would take it.

"It just so happens that I do," Dean hinted cockily. He watched in amusement as Sam's deer caught in the headlights expression quickly changed to one of shocked surprise, giving his brother a moment to contemplate that answer before continuing. For Missouri and Bobby's part, they had managed to remain stubbornly unaffected, unwilling to join in the bantering that the brother's so desperately needed. If he had to place a guess, he'd bet they would be stealthily sneaking from the room in a matter of seconds. "She's got a gorgeous black complexion and, mmm mmm mmm, headlights like you wouldn't believe, and man is she dirty. Gotta give that girl a bath."

It took Sam a few seconds to realize Dean was talking about his car, and when he did he broke into uncontrollable laughter. "I can't believe you actually talk about your car like that," Sam teased.

"And I can't believe you think I would talk about a girl like that," Dean retorted. "Geez, Sam, what the hell kind of nymphomaniac do you think I am?"

"I'm gonna plead the fifth on that one. And I'm also gonna let you rest for a bit. Give me a call when you're ready to wash the car; I'll come join you."

"I don't need your help, Sam," Dean called stubbornly from the couch as Sam approached the doorway.

Sam turned. "I know, Dean. I just want to spend time with you. Like old times." _Like the times when you weren't so angry with the world for losing your leg, _he didn't add.

Dean nodded his acceptance of that, instinctually realizing the unspoken thoughts in his brother's subconscious. _I want that too. _"Fine. You can fill the buckets, then. _Two_ buckets, Sam. I'm not rinsing my car with dirty bathwater."

xxxxxxxxxx

When it came to his car, Dean was like a madman; shouting orders, barking commands, and obsessively spotting unwashed spots. As he had promised, Sam had two buckets of steaming water waiting by the car when Dean emerged from the house on his crutches, one soapy, the other clear. He seemed refreshed, and certainly more steady on his feet, from the nap he had agreed to, and he quickly took the hose from Sam's outstretched hand.

"It on?" he questioned, aiming the nozzle at the dusty car.

"Yeah. I just turned it on."

Dean nodded, and aimed, hitting the car with a fast blast of water and then immediately shutting it off, scowling as he did so. "You didn't check the pressure, Sam."

"The what?" Sam shot Dean a questioning look. _The hell?_

"The water pressure," Dean repeated. "It's too hard. It could scratch the car if you're not careful."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I didn't know it was so complicated to wash a car. I thought you just scrubbed until the job was done."

"You do, if you plan on reapplying a fresh coat of paint every few years." Dean readjusted the pressure and then turned it back on the car, finally spraying happily against the sides. It had been a couple of months since the car had been washed, three days before Dean's accident to be exact, and Dean really didn't like to go more than a week without a proper cleaning. It was long overdue. The caked on mud began to slowly rinse away. It was a cleansing of sorts, getting rid of the dirt and evidence of their trek into the Algonquin woods. Just one more reminder of horrific times being washed down the storm drain into oblivion.

He hobbled around the car, leaning heavily on the crutches as he struggled to keep himself upright against the strain of a taut hose. It was a good ten minutes before Dean felt his pre-rinse was up to par and he turned off the hose, bringing it back off the sidewalk and into the yard. He approached the buckets where Sam stood, waiting somewhat impatiently for a job he could join in on.

"I think you may have missed a spot just under the fender there," Sam teased, in direct reaction to the unnecessary time spent hosing down the car just to wash it with sponges later.

"You just don't appreciate the delicate art of washing a classic beauty, Sammy," Dean tsk'ed dismissively. "I blame myself for your failures in life."

Sam laughed, reaching down and picking up the soapy water bucket. "Where do you want it?"

"By the front tire," Dean gestured as he leaned over to pick from the selection of sponges, choosing a soft one for himself and a stiff brush for Sam. He handed the brush over as he dipped the sponge into the water. "You do the wheels and the rims," he ordered. "And be careful. Just put enough pressure on the chrome to get them clean, don't scratch the metal."

Rolling his eyes again, Sam decided he might just be better off putting them on an automatic rolling cycle for all the times he'd already made the gesture and all the times he figured he would do so in the future. They were only fifteen minutes into the car washing and already he was beginning to question his sanity at offering to help. But it was well worth it to see Dean so happy and to have him back in the big brother driver's seat. So instead of voicing a complaint that he was a 'big boy, and full well knew how to wash a car,' Sam simply crouched in front of the wheel well and got to work.

For Dean, washing the car was a whole new ball game filled with balancing acts and desires for extra hands, but he was determined to make the most of the situation. From the windows up he was good, managing to balance himself against the side of the car as he stretched across the top and the hood and the trunk to reach every last inch. The lower parts were the doozy's because the crutches didn't really allow him to squat or lean over easily and he finally found that the best way to wash the doors and grille was to just give in and sit right down on his butt, scooting inch by inch around the car as he washed. If Sam noticed, he didn't say anything, and Dean was grateful for that. And he was also grateful for Sam's proffered hand at the completion of the scrubbing process, accepting it willingly and allowing his brother to haul him back up.

Grabbing the hose once again, an evil thought snuck into his mind and he somehow managed to suppress the smirk as he turned the hose once again on the car. Feigning action, he complained to Sam as the water failed to squirt from the hose nozzle. "Sam, that's not funny. Turn the water back on."

Sam turned to Dean, mouth open in protest. "It's on, Dean. I didn't turn it off."

"Well there's no water coming out," Dean accused. "You and I are the only two out here, and I sure as hell didn't turn the water off. Just go turn it back on."

"Dean, I–"

"Sam, just go," Dean ordered.

In a huff, Sam stormed off to the water hook-up on the side of the house. He returned seconds later looking perplexed and annoyed. "Dean, the water's on. Try it again."

Once again, Dean aimed the hose at the car, taking care to conceal his hands as he faked pressure on the lever again. "See, it isn't working. There must be a clog in the nozzle or something." He looked into the nozzle himself, squinting to 'see' better inside before handing the hose to his brother. "You look. I can't see anything."

He couldn't believe how easy it was to trick Sam with the water, and Dean bit down hard on his lip as Sam grabbed for the hose and held it up to his face, peering inside as he searched for an obstruction. In one swift motion Dean grabbed for the lever, squeezing his own hands down over Sam's, laughing uproariously as the water squirted forcefully out of the hose, hitting Sam square in the face.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," Dean laughed, doubling over on himself. "Oldest trick in the book; and you _fell _for it."

"Funny, Dean," Sam smirked, wiping the water out of his eyes before turning the hose on Dean, dousing his brother from head to toe with the streaming water.

"Sam, Stop!" Dean ordered, still laughing as he tried to get away from his revenge seeking brother. He turned, hopping away as quickly as he could to escape the spray of water and when that proved not to work he turned back on Sam.

"I said stop!" Dean cried again, grabbing for the hose with one arm, dropping that crutch, as he steadied himself on the other. They struggled, two brother's play fighting and laughing and just plain having fun, until Dean slipped and went down.

Sam's eyes widened in fear as he saw his brother lose his footing, landing hard on his back. He stopped the hose, throwing it to the ground in frantic motions before he realized Dean was still laughing from his spot on the muddy ground.

"Dean, are you alright?" he gasped, beginning to laugh himself. His brother's mood was contagious.

"I'm fine Sam, unless you count my ego being bruised. Damn, that's twice today that I've fallen flat on my ass."

"Getting a bit clumsy in your old age there big brother," Sam teased, reaching out his hand to pull Dean up once again.

Dean glared at Sam in mock anger. "Hey! I'm lot's of thing's, Sammy, but clumsy and old are not two of them. So just watch your mouth."

Sam shrugged. "I call it like I see it."

"Well then you need to get your eyes checked. If you hadn't pushed me–"

"I didn't push you!" Sam denied, incredulous. "You started it with that damn trick with the hose."

"Well if you weren't so naive in the first place you never would have fallen for such an obvious trick."

Ready to shoot back with another retort, Sam stopped mouth halfway open when he realized this could go on forever if someone didn't put a stop to it. And clearly it would have to be the adult in the equation. He held up his hands in defeat. "Alright, alright, I give," he said with a twinkle of happiness in his eyes. "Clearly this whole situation is my fault. I obviously made you fall both times. And surely, if I hadn't fallen for your trick I would never have gotten sprayed in the face with the hose. And it's just good to see you feeling better."

Dean beamed, brushing over the bit of sentiment Sam managed to sneak in there to revel in his victory. "See? What'd I tell you, Sammy. Big brother is always right."

"Yup, always," Sam replied sarcastically, throwing in another eye roll for good measure as he bent to retrieve the hose. The car desperately needed to be rinsed off before the soapy water dried onto it and they had to wash the car all over again. "And since you're so wise and intelligent, oh great one, of course you know that it's Sam...not Sammy."

"Huh? What's that _Sammy_?" Dean asked, cupping his hand around his ear as he insinuated he hadn't heard Sam's proclamation. "The water's too loud, I couldn't hear you."

Sam just shook his head. Dean would always be Dean. And it was good to know that his brother was still there.


	30. Chapter 30

**_Yet again, I just have to say how grateful you all are for the wonderful reviews and your awesome opinions. I can't tell you how much it makes my day to read all your kind words. Thanks so much. As I've told a few of you, the story is beginning to wind down but it's not over yet. We've still got several more chapters to go. Thanks for sticking with me. And on with the story..._**

With Dean now willing and able to put one hundred and ten percent into his therapy efforts, the next few weeks passed by in a blur of activity and determination. The money they had inherited from their grandfather paid for both prosthetic legs, but Dr. Jennings still suggested he focus his efforts on learning to use one well before he did too much alternating between the two. He had mastered stairs on his first lesson and was navigating uneven terrain like a pro by the end of the week. Dean still had to take it easy, still needed to put plenty of time between uses of the prosthetic in order to prevent swelling, but he was up to six hours of use to two hours of non-use, and that was good enough for him - for now.

Downgrading from the crutches to just a cane for support in this most recent trip to the rehab hospital had prompted a celebration request from Dean, and Sam had willingly obliged. He called Bobby and Missouri from the car, telling them that they would all be going out that night in honor of Dean's accomplishments. They arrived at Missouri's house to find the robust woman just finishing putting away what was left of the dinner she had begun to prepare before the phone call, but she dropped everything when she heard the boys come in.

"Dean, honey, what's this big accomplishment your brother alluded to on the phone!" she called out as she rushed from the kitchen to the front entry hall. She stopped in her tracks, a wide smile beaming across her face as she first saw Dean, leaning just on the smooth, curved handle of a wooden cane, walk through the door. His limp was still pronounced, although it was slowly going away as he became more familiar with the new leg, but he entered the house with his head held high and an equally large grin on his own face.

"What do you think Missouri? Bobby? He acknowledged as the older man stepped into the room as well. "Almost good as new, huh?"

The limp he could deal with, and even the cane. As Sam kept repeating over and over again, it wasn't clear to anybody exactly why he limped unless they were to see the prosthesis. And the world was far less sympathetic of some guy with an unsourced limp than they were of someone who was clearly missing a leg. So with the prosthetic, just as Sam had hoped, Dean was far more secure and confident with himself when he appeared to be a whole man.

"It's looking real good, kid," Bobby agreed. "And Sam here tells us we're going out to celebrate, too. What've you got in mind?"

Dean shrugged. "Nothing big. I just thought maybe get some dinner and try out some of the local nightlife. It's been so long since I've seen a pool table and I'm getting a little itchy with the absence."

Sam and Bobby shared a look, both somewhat anxious about the prospect, but eager that Dean was ready to give it a try.

"I saw that," Dean growled. "Don't think I don't know what you're thinking."

Sam initially tried for innocence, but ultimately ended up just admitting it. "Don't get us wrong," Sam hedged. "I'm totally ecstatic that you're suggesting this. And _I_ know that everything will be fine. I just worry that you may be jumping in too fast too soon."

Don't worry about it, Sam. If anything goes wrong I have no one to blame but myself. And besides, it's not like I'm planning on picking up a handful of chicks. I just want to go and have fun."

"Well, if it's fun you want then fun you shall have," Sam assured his brother, relieved to discover there didn't seem to be even a hint of uncertainty coming out in his brother's voice. "We should go get changed and then we can head out.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sam was a bit surprised when Dean emerged from the bathroom in his dress clothes, which still didn't amount to much, but he was surprised none the less. Dean had on the cleanest, least worn out, pair of jeans he owned, and a black t-shirt underneath a striped dress shirt - untucked and half buttoned, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows for good measure. Instead of his usual black, steel-toed hunting boots, he had on the cleaner brown ones, and for the first time in a while Dean actually ran some gel through his hair.

"You look nice," Sam said, blinking back the surprise and reminding himself that this was a _good_ thing to have Dean finally take an interest in his appearance once again.

"I look like I always do when I go out," Dean replied cockily, leaning on his cane as he worked his way to the bed to sit as he waited for Sam to finish dressing. "You should try it sometime."

Looking down at his own wardrobe, which very closely resembled Dean's only with a blue t-shirt instead of a black one, and a solid colored dress shirt instead of striped, Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean but said nothing. Dean would get the point.

"So are you ready or what?" Dean asked impatiently, watching Sam to figure out just what was taking him so long to complete. He appeared dressed, yet he was running all over the room as though he was missing a key piece to his ensemble.

"I will be, just as soon as I find my wallet," Sam grumbled, looking under the bed for the second time since Dean had emerged.

"You mean the one that's sitting on the counter by the bathroom sink?"

Sam sighed, finally remembering leaving it there, and sprinted off to retrieve the wallet. He returned seconds later, holding it up triumphantly. "Got it. Now we can go."

Missouri and Bobby were waiting for them as they descended the stairs, Missouri in a floral dress and Bobby in standard Bobby attire, jeans, flannel shirt and ball cap. The group decided to take two cars. If things went as everyone hoped, Sam and Dean wouldn't be home until late, and the older two figured they would be turning in long before. Driving his car, Dean led the way to the steakhouse he had selected for his celebration, the sounds of AC/DC belting out through the open windows as he wound his way through town. This was the life.

If Sam hadn't been watching carefully, he doubted he would have even noticed the slight hesitation as Dean made his final preparations to enter the restaurant, and he was smart enough not to acknowledge it. Although Dean had never discussed it with him, Sam knew Dean had a mental checklist running through his mind of things he needed to accomplish before he truly felt healed, and tonight, he hoped, Dean was going to mark several of those items off his list. The first, Sam figured, was to walk into a public place with his head held high and the confidence of the old Dean Winchester. The steakhouse was the trial run; the bar would be the true test.

Dean walked slowly, purposefully, and his limp was far less noticeable when he concentrated on that. He gripped the smooth handle of his cane, unconsciously running his thumb over top as he held the door open for the other three members of his party before following them into the room. This was the way he liked it. He'd never preferred to enter first, broadcasting his beauty like he was on a jumbotron for all the world to see. No, he preferred subtlety; the lone stranger casually seeking out a suitable partner for the evening. If he held back he had the advantage, the ability to study the options before selecting his mark. Dean had no intention of getting too close to anyone tonight; he still wasn't that far along. But if he could at least get the notice of a few girls that would be enough for a nights work. And his first prey, of course, would be their waitress.

She was young, naive, probably just out of highschool; and those were the easiest kinds to get. But he had to start small; build his way up to the big leagues. Unconsciously, he knew that rejection was not an option right now. Not at this stage of the game.

Chrissy. He let her name roll off his tongue casually as he placed his order for a beer, and held her gaze for just a second longer than necessary, just to prove he could do it, and then watched her turn from their table with a jerk of her neck so that her long blond hair swung tauntingly across her back.

Turning back to their table, he saw Sam, Bobby, and Missouri all watching him with knowing smiles on their faces, and they all quickly retreated to their menus when they realized he had noticed their eavesdropping.

"What?" Dean asked innocently, but he was unable to stop the grin that fell across his face and he quickly accepted his loss of the 'I don't know what you're talking about' game. "Ok, so she's cute," he defended himself. "What do you expect?"

By the end of the meal Sam knew Dean had succeeded at his first challenge when Bobby shoved the bill across the table to Dean with a roll of his eyes and yet another knowing grin. "I think this is your's," he said with a wink.

Dean began to protest. It was _his_ celebration after all; he shouldn't have to pay the bill. But Bobby insisted and Dean finally grabbed the slip of paper in a huff, his eyes doing a quick about face as he read their tab. _It's on the house, sugar. Chrissy. 555-2121_. He grinned, flashing his pearly whites at the young waitress who stood watching him very indiscreetly from across the room. Slipping the paper into his breast pocket, Dean patted it twice and nodded his thanks to the girl, reveling in the fact that he still had it. She would never know just how much she'd done for him that night. Yet that was the last she would see of Dean Winchester. He wouldn't be calling her. She was just a tad too young for him.

xxxxxxxxxx

Bobby and Missouri left the boys at the steakhouse, declaring themselves too old to do the bar scene, but encouraging them to go out and have a good time. Normally, Sam would have been all too eager to join the older two back at home, leaving Dean to be Dean by himself. But tonight he was too eager to see his brother back in action to miss out on the chance. So he tagged along without so much as a grumble as he ordered a beer and joined Dean in a booth off to the side.

He could see the gears turning in Dean's head. Pool or women, pool or women. It was a tough call to make, but Sam wasn't too surprised when Dean finally chose a game of pool for his first foray into the bar scene. There was less to explain, less of himself to reveal. Fewer nosy questions.

Beer in hand, Dean casually made his way over to the tables with Sam close on his heels. From the three still available, he chose the one with the least tilt and popped in his quarters, hooking his cane to the rim of the table where he hoped he wouldn't need it for a while. The balls released with a noisy clacking sound and he quickly collected them, racking them with expert precision before selecting a pool cue. Sam already had one in his hand and Dean nodded for him to break.

It's like they never stopped, the actions were so ingrained in their minds, and Sam quickly outplayed Dean in the first game. Dean asked for a rematch, "Best two out of three," he requested, and Sam obliged with a determined nod of his head. Sam bested Dean in the second game as well, and Dean grudgingly handed over a wad of money to his brother as he continued to ask for another chance.

It was all perfectly played out as Sam stalked off to the bar, ordering another beer for himself and one for Dean and returned a minute later. "Least I can do is buy you a beer," he growled to his beaten 'opponent,' and the game began.

From two tables over a group of biker guys overheard the conversation, heard Dean's desire to continue playing, and saw an easy opportunity to make some money. "I'll give you a game," one of them announced gruffly, breaking from his group to saunter over to Dean. "Even donate the quarters for it."

"I don't know," Dean hedged. "It's not really my night. 'Fraid I won't be much competition."

The guy shrugged. "It's all just for fun anyway. I'll go easy on ya. Name's Duane, by the way. But you can just call me Dozer. All ma' friends do."

Dean nodded his greeting from across the table. "Dean. You can call me Dean." _Great, I've chosen a guy who's named after a piece of destruction machinery for my return to hustling. This should be good._

"I'll go easy on you, Dean. First round there's no stakes involved."

Stiffening his shoulders, Dean shook his head. "Don't do me any favors. If you're playin for money, so am I. I'll put twenty on the game." He slapped down a Jackson on the side of the table and stared the man down."

Dozer shrugged and slapped down his own twenty. "Suit yourself, kid."

From off in the corner, Sam smiled as he swallowed another mouthful of beer. He relaxed some, but still kept his eyes focused on the game. It was good to see his brother back in his element, but if Dean got too confident too quickly this could turn sour real fast. These guys looked like they meant business and he'd never known his brother to back down from a fight.

Dean lost the first game and excused himself to buy another beer. He returned and quickly lost the second game as well. By the time the third game rolled around they had drawn a crowd, mostly of Dozer's friends, as they watched the newbie get his butt kicked by the local. Game three, Dean managed to squeak by with a win, but Dozer called it a lucky break and insisted on yet another game. Dean was only too happy to oblige.

The stakes had risen steadily, doubling each time, and by the fourth game they were up to one hundred and sixty a piece. Inwardly, Dean smiled, wondering just how much he could get the game up to without risking getting his butt kicked. He felt in his pocket for the wad of cash he'd brought with him, compliments of Grandpa Angelli, and knew this time he had plenty of cash to tempt fate with. He could easily get cocky, put too much at stake, but right now he was too deep into bliss to really think about that.

From the corner of his eye he noticed a gorgeous little strawberry blond watching him intently. _Time for the next test. _He turned on the Winchester charm, flashing a winning smile her way before returning his attention to the game. He would let her come to him.

And come she did. She was right behind him after he sunk two balls into their respective pockets and then missed the third shot on purpose. He felt her breath on his neck before he heard her speak. "Doesn't really look like your game, doll. I could give you a much better time out on the dance floor."

Dean turned, grinning at his new admirer as he watched Dozer line up a shot from the corner of his eye. He was ecstatic. She'd asked him to _dance_. That meant she thought he _could _dance, and that she hadn't been paying too much attention to his leg. But even before, Dean Winchester didn't do dancing, and there was no way anyone would get him out on the dance floor now. "Aww, sweetheart, I'm not the dancin' type," he crooned, angling toward her so their shoulders touched and his opposite hand was on her elbow. "But I can think of a few other things you and me could get into. Tell ya what," he pulled out a ten and a five and pushed it into her hand. "You go get me a beer and yourself whatever you want, and when I finish playing this guy you and I can go get to know each other."

She beamed, accepting the money as she brushed her lips across his cheeks, before sauntering to the bar with a swagger that would put Jessica Rabbit to shame. He watched her go, realizing that he had no idea what her name was. But that was just fine with him; anonymity was his middle name. His only regret was that he still didn't feel comfortable enough to actually go the distance with her. She was almost worth spilling everything just for a little action. But not quite.

Returning his focus to the game, Dean saw that Dozer had sunk three more solids into the pocket and was lining up a fourth. He missed, and Dean limped forward to determine his next shot. Hitting that one, and then missing the next, Dean decided the next game would be the last. He'd proven that he could swindle pool still, and it was time to get his focus back on the ladies.

"Alright man, after this next game I'm out," he announced to Dozer as he put on a facade of disappointment on his face. "This losing's getting to be too much for me."

"Aww, the kid's gettin' bummed out," Dozer mocked, eliciting a round of laughter from his buddies. "I'll tell you what kid, this next game let's go double or nothin. Maybe that will help you out just a little."

Dean took the teasing in stride, looking over to the strawberry blonde with a wink. "I can live with that," he accepted the bet as he crossed the couple of feet to where the girl sat watching the game with her Margarita clenched in her long, thin fingers, and whispered in her ear. "Just give me a few more minutes and I'll be all yours."

Pulling her lower lip between her teeth, the girl giggled seductively. "I'll be just over here."

He winked and returned to the game, breaking the rack of balls with a sharp crack. One ball went in and he turned to his opponent with a cautious smile. "I guess I'm stripes," he announced as he leaned over the table and went after another ball, sinking it too. He eyed the table for another shot, and lined up a particularly difficult one, missing it on purpose. Years of hustling had taught him the art was to look like your win was an accident. Mastering the difficult shots after missing so many easy ones got suspicious.

Dozer stepped forward, eyeing up the table for his next shot and ended up sinking two in one go. He smirked at Dean and rounded the table for another shot, sinking that one, too. He took out six balls before missing a shot, and Dean held his breath through the whole thing, worried that he may have been too rash to just sink the two balls. He had a lot of catching up to do - if he ever got a chance to do so.

But Dozer finally missed, and Dean took advantage of the chance, clearing the rest of the table until all that was left was the eight ball. Without even looking up he could tell Dozer had stiffened and he felt the group of friends step in closer as Dean hesitated over whether or not he should miss the eight ball and risk not having another chance, or whether it was better to risk the wrath of Dozer. He glanced around the room and saw Sam now standing on edge just to the outside of the circle, his hand hidden underneath his shirt and behind his back. He knew Sam's hand was tightly clenched to the gun at his back, ready for trouble. Just off to the side, Dean saw the strawberry blonde staring at him intently, her eyes never wavering. That clinched it. He couldn't risk losing now.

Dean bent over the table, lined up his shot, and sank the eight ball without a second thought. Trying to hold in his smugness, he circled the table, snatched up the cash and grabbed his cane as he pocketed his winnings. "Thanks for the game. It was fun."

Dozer's face turned red with anger as Dean sauntered off to his date, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he led her to a booth at the back of the bar. What Dean didn't see was his beaten opponent head off towards the bar to knock down a few shots before returning for his lost cash. But Sam did.

"What did you do to your leg?" Strawberry blonde asked casually as they climbed into the booth side by side.

Breaking eye contact, Dean looked down to his leg, staring daggers at it as he cursed the thing for being so noticeable. He'd rehearsed the lie so many times it should have been second nature to him. But this was the first time he had to be convincing. A deep breath prepared him as much as he could be and he looked back up to the girl with a small half smile. "Just an accident on the job. Nothing exciting." He held his breath, waiting to see if she would by it or if she would press the issue further. But the girl wasn't interested in getting to know him, she was just interested in the sex, and she dropped the topic like a hot potato.

"So I've never seen you around here before. You knew to the area?" she asked, running a finger tenderly up and down his chest.

"Just staying with a friend for a few weeks. I'll be heading out of town soon." And that was just perfect for this woman, because she wasn't interested in strings and ties anymore than Dean was. As he leaned in for a kiss, he asked himself if he might actually _be_ willing to go all the way with this girl. She seemed so ready for it, and - god - it had been so long for him.

But as this was all going on, Sam had noticed the group of five men winding their way through the bar to his brother, ready for trouble. Knowing Dean would be totally pissed if Sam stepped in for him, Sam hung back, but remained close enough that he was ready to step in at a seconds notice.

Dozer tapped Dean on the shoulder, interrupting the lip lock he was currently engaged in. "I think I'd like my money back," he growled, arms crossed against his chest. Behind him, his four friends mimicked his posture to a tee.

Dean waved him away impatiently, never fully breaking from his embrace from the strawberry blonde. "I won it fair and square, man. Just take your losses like a man."

Undeterred, Dozer grabbed Dean by the lapels of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. "We don't take kindly to hustler's like you round these parts."

Sam stepped forward, ready to break in and pull Dozer off his brother. But Dean saw him and held up a hand to stop, indicating that he had things covered. Sam wasn't so sure, but he hung back as he watched Dean reach behind him for his cane and bring it down hard across the back of the larger man's knee's, knocking him off balance and dropping him to the ground.

"And I don't take kindly to big thugs like you interrupting my social hour," Dean retorted as he stepped back from his attacker while the man scrambled back to his feet.

Growling in determination, Dozer rounded his shoulders and aimed head first toward Dean's stomach, taking them both down to the ground. Dean knocked his head hard against the floor and struggled to keep his vision under control as he lashed out, his fist smacking hard against the man's temple.

Sam took this new attack into account and sprang forward, taking down the first of Dozer's back up thugs with a well timed uppercut to the jaw. The man never saw it coming, and he dropped quickly. But he lost the element of surprise with the next three, and found himself lost in a whirlwind of punches and kicks. There was no doubt these men were larger, and probably stronger, but Sam was more experienced and he finally managed to drop the remaining three with only a few (hundred) cuts and bruises to show for it.

Slightly dazed, Sam pulled himself to his feet to see how Dean was faring. He'd managed to take the leader down, and was finally climbing to his own feet as Dozer lay seemingly unconscious on the floor. He looked to Sam with a cocky grin, "See, little brother, nothing to it," before turning back to the strawberry blond.

She still remained in the same spot in the booth, awestruck and starstruck at what had just unfolded before her. She had a new hero, and Dean decided right then that he was definitely going back to her place for the evening. Sam could take the car home. But before he could go further, a hand jerked out from Dozer's prone form and grabbed onto Dean's left ankle, the prosthetic ankle. The guys' eyes widened in surprise when he realized he wasn't holding a normal ankle, but that didn't stop him from pulling hard, knocking Dean from his feet and onto the floor with a harsh thump. Dean laid there for a minute, allowing the air to return to his lungs, before he allowed himself to take stock of the situation. He could see Dozer's shocked face and the confusion and pity playing across that of the strawberry blonde, and he knew before he even looked that his secret had been outed.

Slowly, cautiously, Dean looked down to his leg. Between the top of his shoe and the hem of his pants was a four inch gap where the thin carbon rod of his prosthesis could easily be seen. Dozer had released the leg immediately when he realized what he'd done, his hand flying off the carbon so fast you would have thought it was on fire, as though it was fine to knock just a guy off his feet, but an amputee was another story.

"Dude, I'm so sorry, man. I didn't know." Dozer stammered, crab walking backwards a few feet before he finally settled against a table leg.

Dean felt himself turn a deep shade of red as he grabbed the cane and scrambled to his feet. Glancing back up to the strawberry blond, he knew the night was over between them as he recognized the apprehensiveness in her expression. Without even trying, he knew she would come up with come cock and bull excuse about how she had to be up early and therefore couldn't enjoy the rest of the evening with him. He didn't dare even try. And if that wasn't bad enough, he had an entire audience of onlookers to contend with. He could feel the curious, pitying eyes of the bar's patrons on him as he took the defensive stance, unsure whether to stare them all down or turn tail and run.

"What the hell are you all looking at?" he growled threateningly, choosing to look through the crowd instead of at it. He found Sam easily and wove his way over to him, limping more than usual. The leg was still on and intact, but he could tell it had been turned just enough that it was pressing against bone and it was painful to walk on. But he didn't dare stop to adjust it as he made a beeline to the exit. "Let's go, Sam," he ordered, unable to hide the desperation in his voice but hoping he had kept it hidden enough to not tip off the bar's patrons. "I've had enough of these losers for one night," he added, although the tone of voice did little to match the intended announcement.

Sam's heart sank and his stomach tied in knots as he watched his brother's dejected form cross the parking lot to his car. Shoulder's slumped in defeat, he let himself into the passenger side and waited huffily for Sam to get in the driver's seat. That seemed to be the clue lately, the determination of how Dean was feeling. Because when he was in a good mood he drove, but when he was feeling sorry for himself he rode shotgun. The only motion Dean made was to adjust the leg so it didn't put so much pressure on the bone, but after that he was still. Sam started the engine, taking one last lingering glance at his brother before pulling out onto the main road. He was at a loss for words, yet he wasn't sure if there was anything that would comfort him anyway. This, Dean would have to work out for himself.


	31. Chapter 31

**_So, I feel like everytime I post I have some sort of excuse lately. And this time is no different. Normally, I write at least a page and a half on my lunch break and another page or two at home each day. But I didn't get a chance to write all week at work, and it doesn't help that this is a longer than norm chapter. So once again we have me submitting a chapter later than usual. In addition, I decided it was better to get this up for you all than to reply to all your wonderful reviews. My apologies. Let me just say, you guys are all too sweet to leave such wonderful and kind reviews. They're what makes me feel so guilty for not posting in the timely fashion you all expect from me (and that's not a bad thing - trust me.) Hopefully this chapter will redeem me. I'll try to do better in the future! Thanks again, and enjoy..._**

Sam didn't know what to say. Or how he should be reacting. Or even what he should be feeling. He'd seen the faces and the expressions, same as Dean; the problem was he just didn't see the situation as being nearly as bad as Dean did. Maybe it was just because he was still just an outsider, observing Dean's pain from a distance. Maybe he just wasn't nearly as perceptive as he thought he was. Or maybe, there really wasn't as much to be upset about as Dean seemed to think there was.

Sure, there had been the expected shock and surprise reverberating through the crowd. But that was to be expected, right. What red-blooded, half-toasted, American crowd wouldn't be curious of a man sprawled on the ground with a false leg. It was human. But what it really all boiled down to in the end, was that Dean had kicked Dozer's ass at pool and in a physical fight, and he had three hundred and sixty dollars in his pocket to show for it.

So maybe Dean hadn't landed the girl this time. In all honesty, Sam wasn't certain the Strawberry blonde wouldn't have happily invited Dean home that night. Yeah, she had been just as surprised as the rest of the crowd, but what the hell was Dean expecting? Did he honestly think she would have said 'prosthesis? What prosthesis? Looks like a real leg to me.' Because, unless she was twelve brain cells short of a dozen there was no way she hadn't noticed. That didn't mean it necessarily would have bothered her.

The way she had looked at him before; that undying attraction to his heroism and cunning, Sam really didn't think it would have been a problem. If anything, the fact that Dean had managed to take down the overly muscled man with only one real leg should have immensely impressed the girl. She should have been swooning all over Dean. If he had just decided to stay put...

Sam was decidedly pissed off at himself at having given in so easily to Dean's demand. He should have made him stay; should have reminded him that Winchester men didn't run away from their fears. But how was he supposed to tell Dean that he thought he was blowing this out of proportion. How did he tell a man whose very sanity is teetering dangerously on a tightrope no greater in diameter than that of a spiders web that he really should stand back and reevaluate the situation before he throws in the towel.

For a minute, Sam actually considered turning the car around right there and then, and make Dean return to the bar to face his fears. It's what their father would have done, and Dean always responded quickly to their father's militaristic way of ordering them around. But then again, John Winchester probably wouldn't have let things go so far in the first place. And that didn't even count the fact that Sam couldn't be sure if John's method of doing things was really what was best for Dean right now.

Healing, John Winchester style, wasn't really healing at all if you actually thought about it. It was silence and repression and avoidance and a whole slew of other actions that only led to a multitude of other problems without really fixing the issue.

Without their father around to give orders and to intimidate, Sam believed Dean had flourished. Of course, he still had a long way to go before anyone dared consider him emotionally healthy, but that didn't mean he wasn't on his way.

Certain the healing would come in time, Sam realized Dean would do much better if he wasn't pushed. For now, just being there through the emotional roller-coaster that had become Dean's life would have to be enough.

Sam dared to glance over at his brother and frowned as he watched Dean staring sullenly down at his leg. Without asking, Sam knew he was cursing what was left of his leg, and everything that went along with the missing piece. There was no easy fix; no magical cure. It was what it was, and Sam would just have to accept the fact that there was nothing he could say that would guarantee healing. But he sure as hell could try.

"I bet it felt good to be hustling pool again, huh?'

Dean shrugged forlornly and offered a grunt in reply.

But Sam was not deterred easily. "Probably felt like you never stopped."

"Something like that," Dean muttered.

_Okay, so that was a little better._ "I think you and I make a pretty good pre-team. Course, playing it up for the townies is probably the only time I'll ever manage to beat you at pool, but..."

"Yeah, guess so," Dean agreed, his words trailing off in apathy.

_Come on, Dean, come on. Give me something. Throw me a bone here!_ "So, um...that waitress back at the steakhouse was pretty cute. She really seemed into you."

"She was young. And clearly blind," Dean shot back.

_Damn it, Sam. It didn't work the last time you tried to bring up a girl. What made you think it would work this time? _Sam sighed, frustrated. "Dean, you used to be so in love with yourself it was obnoxious, and now I would give anything for you to feel that way again. You are still an attractive man. You're still desirable. Hell, if I was a woman I'd do you!"

"That's just gay, Sam. Not to mention incestual."

Sam burst out laughing at that, but stopped abruptly when he realized there had been no humor in Dean's voice. _How the hell did he do that? How does he crack a joke and not even realize it?_ "That's not the point, Dean," he tried instead, getting more desperate by the minute. "The point is that you shouldn't–"

"Yeah, I got the point Sam. But I'm not in the mood."

"Well you damn well better get in the mood, because I'm gonna talk and you're gonna listen whether you like it or not."

"I don't think I got the memo where our relationship became a dictatorship, Sam. I don't _gotta_ do anything."

"Dean, please..."

Dean rolled his eyes, huffing audibly as he ran his hands through his short hair. "Sam, I'm not in the mood. You saw what happened. You know..."

"Yeah, I do," Sam agreed, seeing his opening and grabbing it. "I saw a group of normal people reacting like a group of normal people. I saw them watch you kick some guy's ass who was twice your size. I saw them react in surprise when they saw your leg. And then I saw the admiration in their expressions when they realized you had more than just the size difference as an obstacle. Seems to me you overreacted just a bit."

"I don't think you saw the same thing I saw, if that's what you think happened."

Sam gripped tighter to the wheel, wondering just how hard he was going to have to push to get Dean to realize the truth. His brother had the recalcitrance of an old mule sometimes, and it took finding that hidden switch to get him to change his opinion on things. It broke his heart that Dean had become so intent of belonging. Of all the times for his loner brother to need to feel accepted, and this was it. Yet Sam knew things would be no better if he, himself, was in Dean's position. The only way he could get through to his brother was to put himself in Dean's place. And that was about as easy as climbing a rope to the moon.

"Yeah? So what exactly do you think _you_ saw tonight at the bar? Tell me what I missed exactly." He cringed, knowing he was opening up a can of worms that very likely would come back to bite him in the ass. But the only way Sam even stood a chance at changing Dean's mind was to find out precisely what was going through his mind.

"Disgust." One word. One strongly stated, emotionally backed word. Dean spat it out as though just saying it left a bitter taste on his tongue, and then returned to staring blankly out the window, his shoulders hunched, arms crossing against his stomach.

Sam winced. He'd feared hearing words like pity, fear, confusion. And now he would gladly take those over what Dean had chosen instead. "Pity, fear, and confusion were normal human reactions. He could explain them away with a few well placed appeals and assurances. He could remind Dean that he'd gotten upset at Sam reacting the very same way to the people in the diner a few weeks back, and that Dean should take his own advice; calm down, let it ride. Whether or not that would work, he didn't know, but at least he had a plan for those.

But disgust. Disgust was not easily explained away no matter how wrong Dean was at having seen it. Disgust was such a strong word. It was ugly and lacked hope, and Dean was so convinced that that's what people saw when he looked at himself. For that, was the reality of Dean's difficulties thus far. It wasn't what other's saw in him, it was what he saw in himself. And until Sam succeeded in changing that, Dean didn't stand a chance. The only thing Sam had going for himself was the fact that there really was no where to go but up. Dean had fallen so far, he really couldn't go any further. Realizing this, Sam knew the worst thing he could do was not try.

"You're wrong, Dean," Sam announced firmly, lingering at a stop sign a few seconds longer so he could actually look at this brother, stare him down. Dean didn't look up, didn't react, but Sam knew he had heard. "You couldn't be more wrong if you tried."

"That's your argument?" Dean asked glumly. "You're wrong, Dean!?"

"Oh, I've just gotten started," Sam hissed, trying to keep the rage out of his voice. It was getting harder and harder to remind himself that simple, rational arguments weren't going to work in this case. Dean wasn't thinking rationally today. Or yesterday. And most likely not tomorrow, either. He hated that he was so tired of dragging out these pep talks. Hated that every time it seemed as though they had made progress and that Dean was finally moving forward, something had to happen that would set him back. Hated that he felt the need to tiptoe around the man, cautiously evaluation everything he said or did or proposed in case that might be the tipping point to Dean's anger. He just wanted his brother back. Yet every time he thought Dean was back, something ripped him away again.

"Yeah? Well go ahead, give it your best shot." As Sam's desperation and anger intensified, so did Dean's irritation, and it was with a scowl on his face that he growled out the challenge.

In his aggravation, Sam let out a half growl, half screamed yell in reaction to Dean's noticeable lack of willingness to even try and accept help, and he swerved the car toughly to the side of the road, pulling off in the parkinglot of a small strip mall and parking the car. "I can't do this anymore!" he finally yelled, pounding the steering wheel maniacally with his open palms. From the corner of his eye he saw Dean shrink back against the side of the car, watching Sam cautiously. If he could, Sam would have smiled at his immediate success, but that would giv e him away, and defeat the purpose of this newest contrived attempt.

Pleading had done no good, and neither had appealing to Dean's rational side. And obviously assuring Dean that no one would ever know had been one giant flop. Which left only one other option in Sam's mind. Throughout the whole ordeal, Sam had been nothing but patient and understanding. When Dean yelled at him and insulted him and blamed him and did everything under the sun to be helpful, Sam still turned the other cheek and asked for more, please. For weeks, he'd pretended that nothing Dean said had hurt, that the words hadn't burrowed deep under his skin and remained there, fermenting and stewing until he wasn't sure he even liked his brother anymore. Yet he'd done so out of love, and for that, he pressed himself to remember that anything Dean threw at him had to be one hundred times worse sitting inside his brother. But maybe now was the time to put a stop to all this. Maybe now was the time to remind Dean that he had a responsibility not only to himself, but to Sam as well. It was time to remind Dean that his brother had feeling's too and it was about time he start considering them.

And so, as he looked over to Dean and saw his brother moping and cowering like some shell of his former self, Sam knew that was what it would take to bring Dean back. His methods would come out seeming more like their father's in a lot of ways, but with love and concern leading the effort instead of orders and demands, Sam hoped that would be enough.

In Sam's long silence Dean was finally growing curious, and though he still hung back, surprised at Sam's outburst, he now had his head cocked and ready for an explanation. And when Sam still didn't offer something he finally decided to make an attempt at getting it himself. "You can't do what anymore?" he asked meekly.

"This!" Sam yelled. "This constant teeter-totter ride we've been on. One minute you're flying high as a kite, all stoked about getting rid of those crutches and replacing them with a cane, and the next minute you're freaking out because a bar full of drunken strangers who you'll never see again happened to find out that you've got a prosthesis."

"Sam, I-"

"I get that this sucks, Dean, I really do. But I can't deal with the constant ups and downs. And I can't deal with watching you sit there and convince yourself of the worst when there's no need. Those people in the bar were _not_ looking at you with disgust. Not a single one of them. Yeah, I saw a few with pity and ignorance, but that's pretty much to be expected." He stopped himself as he realized he was branching off onto a tangent, and circled back around to the point.

"But the majority of the people in that bar were impressed, Dean. They saw you face an obstacle they could never dream of facing themselves, and they watched you come out on top. And that girl, Dean, she didn't care."

"Sam, you're–"

"No, Dean, let me finish! That girl didn't care about your leg, I know it. You saw pity and fear in her eyes, but what I think you were really seeing was your own fear and pity. You're pushing away from people before they can push away from you, and that's not going to help you get through this. You're never going to get better if you don't just put yourself out there. It may be scary, but you have to start being comfortable with yourself, being _proud _of yourself. You've accomplished so much in your life, and there's no reason you can't accomplish more if you would just get off your ass and stop feeling sorry for yourself."

"Sam, you're right."

"Dean, please! Just let me...wait, I...I'm right?"

Dean nodded, a half smile playing on his face although the rest of his body still appeared completely downcast. "Yeah, Sam, you're right. About all of it. But what you're saying and what I have to do are two totally different things. You make it sound so easy. Just snap my fingers and be comfortable with the fact that something that's been a part of my life for twenty seven years is no longer there. Just forget that every time I let myself get close to someone I'm going to have to be reminded of the time I caught my leg in a supernatural bear trap and had the damn thing chopped off. Because you know they're gonna want to know and it's not like I can hide it."

"So you tell them." Sam replies simply, his head still reeling at the revelation that Dean thinks he's right. "You tell them the truth, or you make up another story. It's not like you haven't done that before, just to get a girl. I don't want to burst your bubble, Dean, but do you honestly think those girls in Chicago were hanging all over you because they thought you were Dean Winchester, demon hunter? Or because they thought you were Dean Winchester, big time TV producer? And what about–"

"Yeah, yeah, I get your point." Dean held up a hand to stop Sam from continuing, and Sam couldn't help but be a little disappointed that Dean's cockiness hadn't shoved through then to announce that, of course the girls wanted to sleep with him _just_ because he was who he was and for no other reason.

But he moved on. That was, after all, the point he had been going for. That there was no sense in feeling the need to always tell the truth. "You know I didn't men it like that," he offered by way of explanation.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know. So what's your big idea? What's your plan?"

Sam shrugged. "I hadn't really thought that far ahead," he apologized, then perked up. "But I'm sure we can figure something out."

Shaking his head stubbornly, Dean huffed and re-crossed his arms against his chest. "Let's just go," he said, pointing down the street.

"Dean," Sam hedged, "Missouri's house is that way." He pointed in the opposite direction of the way Dean was pointing, suspicion in his voice.

"And I'm not ready to go back yet. I want to go this way. Just drive; I'll tell you when to stop."

Shrugging and shaking his head, Sam finally pulled out of the parking lot and drove in the direction Dean wanted. They moved down the stretch for several blocks, silence once again invading the interior of the car until Dean's voice broke in.

"Turn left here."

Doing as he was told, Sm couldn't help a glance in Dean's direction as he tried to make out what his brother was planning. But Dean's face waxed firm and unyielding, giving no indication of his intentions. It was the same thing Sam had been dealing with for weeks, this inability to read his brother, and he feared that their conversation had done nothing for the stubborn man.

So it was with surprise and a hint of trepidation that Sam turned into the parking lot of another bar, a different one than they had been at earlier, after a series of ordered lefts and rights from his brother. He'd expected to find themselves at another park, or maybe a liquor store, but certainly not the very type of place Dean had stormed out of in fear and anger just hours before.

Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean, unconsciously gripping the steering wheel as his heart rate began to speed up. "What are we doing here?" Sam squeaked out.

"Trying out your theory," Dean answered warily. Suddenly he wasn't feeling as sure of himself when the reality was in front of him. It had seemed like a good plan ten minutes ago as he and Sam sat in the parking lot. Do as Sam asked. Get the younger boy off his back. Go home and get a good night's sleep. But now that they were actually here, he wasn't so sure.

But looking over at Sam, and seeing the uncertainty playing across his own brother's feature's, Dean grew more determined. It wasn't until tonight, storming out of the bar, that Dean had seen anything but assuredness in Sam's expression. Even when Dean himself didn't want to do something, or didn't think he could, Sam still had that determination for the two of them. But looking at him now, seeing the concern over Dean's mental well being, Dean knew he had to change that expression. Never had he known his little brother to think of him as anything less than a hero, larger than life. And never again would he let him think anything less.

With determination coursing through his veins, Dean grabbed the door handle and opened the door, pulling himself from the car and making a beeline across the parking lot before Sam had a chance to lock the door; before Dean himself had the chance to think twice on what he was doing. He pushed into the bar displaying more confidence than he felt, calling upon age old hunter's techniques to quell his fear and distance himself from his concerns.

It seemed to work as he made his first scan of the country themed bar, taking careful note of the girls littering the place and making his initial assessment. As he crossed the room to the wet bar, desperately in need of a few more drinks in his system before making his move, he heard the door open again and knew Sam had just entered. But he didn't turn around, knowing that whatever Sam held in his expression would be too much to bear, knowing that if Sam had lost faith in him his heart would break. He didn't want to know just how far Sam's opinion of him had plummeted; he just wanted to be sure to bring it back up.

With beer in hand, Dean made his selection. Immediately, he marked off the list all the girls who were clearly taken, all the girls who were too scantily dressed, and those who wore too many clothes. The taken ones were an obvious problem. And he vetoed the scantily clad because they were too likely to be concerned only with appearance, and the too much clothes because those were the girls who were looking for a relationship. Either group was far too likely to turn him down. But then there were the girls in the middle, the ones who weren't so concerned with appearances that they scrutinized every last angle, yet weren't so concerned with finding the perfect husband that they ran at the first sign of imperfection.

As he scanned the bar, Dean's eyes finally fell on the perfect target and honed in. She was tall, but not too tall, and slender, with thick deep reddish brown hair streaked with blonde. It was done up in a high ponytail with whispy tendrils falling in her face. She wore fitted jeans and a pale green three-quarter length sleeved blouse, tied in a knot at navel level. She wore black heeled boots, but thick, remotely sensible even. And simple diamond jewelry, small studs in her ears, a rhinestone studded circle hanging from her neck, and a small studded ring on her right middle finger. And he swore she had a golden halo encircling her head, pointing her out as the one.

Downing the remainder of his beer in one long drag, Dean set the bottle back on the bar and made his way over to the girl, tying to make a confident swagger out of his limp. She was sitting in the corner, watching what he assumed to be one of her girlfriends on the dance floor with another guy, and she smiled shyly as he made eye contact with her. She looked casually to the empty stool to her left and then back at him, offering Dean the seat. He smiled as he took it, and breathed out a simple "hi."

"Hi yourself, stranger. Name's Suzanne." She winked and pulled her lip between her teeth, waiting for him to respond.

"I'm Dean," he replied. "You don't look like you're having much fun."

Suzanne shrugged. "I'm here with my friend, Ginny," she answered, nodding off to the girl Dean had seen her watching on his way over. "This isn't really my scene, but she drags me out here all the time in case she needs a wing man, but more often than not I just end up sitting here until I find out if she's going home with the guy or not."

Grinning, Dean looked over to the friend and took a minute to study her. "Looks to me like she's not coming home with you. Does that mean you're gonna be leaving?"

"I don't know," she replied softly, looking him dead on in the eye. "Kinda depends on whether or not I find someone worth my time."

There it was; the invitation. She was wide open to Dean's advances and he just had to decide whether or not he was ready to take her up on the opportunity. He glanced around the bar, seeing the dozens of couples swarming the dance floor, and more still at tables and booths. And then he saw Sam, sitting by himself on a barstool, his back to the bar as he watched Dean intently. Sam offered him a nod of encouragement and Dean knew what he had to do.

Looking back to Suzanne, Dean shot her a seductive smile. "Well I don't know. I think I might be able to find you someone worth your while." He fingered his cane nervously, but his smile gave away nothing but confidence as he worked himself through this.

"Are you propositioning me, Dean?" she cooed, her golden eyes locking with his.

He nodded, maybe more eager than necessary, but she didn't seem to notice. "I think maybe I am."

"Well, whadaya say we go over to a slightly quieter corner. It's too loud over here."

"Sounds like a plan." Dean gripped his cane and stood up, ushering her forward to a booth in the far corner. Suzanne led the way, sliding into the booth and watching Dean carefully as he did the same.

And just as before, curiosity overtook his companion as she watched his careful movements. "What did you do to your leg?"

Here was the next step; the explanation. Do or die. He took a breath, studying his leg an the cane intently, wondering if he could carry it out. And decided he had no choice but to try. "I'm a soldier," he answered, feeling as though it was only half a lie. He was right. "My unit and I were on a recon mission a few months back when I got caught up in a booby trap. Lost my leg below the knee." He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable rejection to come, already preparing to pull himself back up and leave before she could say too much.

But instead of rejecting him, she grinned wider, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she leaned in closer. There was no pity in her eyes, although concern seemed to play a part in her expression as she reached a hand out and gently, tentatively, placed it on his leg. "So you're kinda like a hero, huh? Wounded in action and all."

"That...that's not a problem for you?" he stammered, somewhat taken aback at her lack of reaction. "You mean you don't...don't want–"

She smirked, placing a finger on his lips to silence him. "I just have one question for you."

Dean cocked an eyebrow, waiting for it.

"Does _it_ still work?"

Mouth agape, Dean nodded slowly, hardly believing how easy this had actually been. Inside, his mind was screaming, partying, celebrating in relief. But on the outside he was Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected. Well, not so much, because he suddenly found himself thinking only with his downstairs brain, and that made him nothing short of giddy as a schoolboy. But that didn't so much matter, because he'd passed his challenge.

From the bar, Sam sat back watching as a smile played across his lips. He beamed with pride and ecstacy for his brother, finally relieved that he had succeeded in such a challenging feat. He was shocked at how well he'd played Dean, and even more astounded at just how good and actor he was that Dean hadn't realized how much of the visible emotions had been nothing more than acts. Sam had realized that Dean needed to feel his disappointment before he would actually make the effort to prove himself to Sam. And Sam still had a few tricks up his sleeve when it came to his brother; never show all your aces if you want to win the game. And tonight, one of Sam's hidden aces had been pulled out. He was a much better actor than Dean gave him credit for. And because of that, Dean wouldn't be coming home with Sam tonight.

Sam waited another twenty minutes, just to be certain, but then he made the decision to leave. His work was done. Dean was finally, _really_, on his way back to being Dean. He didn't expect any more huge backslides.


	32. Chapter 32

**_Alright, Let's give this a try. I'm not in town right now and I don't have the computer that this is saved on, so I had to copy and paste it from another sight. I don't know how well it's going to work - but we'll give it the old college try. Sorry about the wait, and thanks H.T. Marie for the insight into how to post. Wish me luck_**!

Bobby and Missouri were both fast asleep by the time Sam arrived back at the house, and he found himself mildly disappointed that they hadn't stayed up to find out how things had gone that night. He wanted to dish about the events of the evening, wanted to perform his own celebration for having finally gotten through to Dean. But there was no one around to rejoice in his good mood, and he didn't think it fair to wake them up just to tell them something that could wait until morning. So instead, he just made his way into the living room and sat on the couch in blissful silence in the darkened room.

His phone lay within his reach on the coffee table in the center of the room, and it was a good fifteen minutes before Sam realized he was staring at it, waiting for it to ring. He didn't know for sure what he was waiting for, although he knew who he was waiting for. But whether he expected Dean to call with the details of the glorious sex he had just had, or whether he was waiting for Dean to call in tears, begging Sam to come pick him up, Sam just didn't know. He was absolutely thrilled about what had transpired at the second bar, practically on cloud nine. But a part of him still expected Dean to wig out on the poor girl; his brother just wasn't completely stable yet.

But as fifteen minutes turned into an hour with no sign of an SOS call from Dean, Sam finally sighed and gave up the ghost. He had to get some sleep. Grabbing the phone, Sam made his way upstairs slowly, carefully stepping over the creaky step that always gave them away, and climbed into bed. He lay there for another half hour, worrying about his brother, before sleep finally consumed him fully.

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Dean sighed as he awoke, rolling over in bed to see the clock on the nightstand. For a minute, he found himself slightly disoriented when he realized his right arm was tangled underneath some unexpected weight, and he stopped, rolling back before he could take a look at the time. Finally seeing the sleeping figure of Suzanne, her neck resting on his arm, the evening came rushing back to him in a whirl of images and sounds and he couldn't help the smile that found itself playing on his lips as a calmness enveloped his soul. The first rays of the morning sun peeked through the white lace curtain covering her bedroom window, and the golden light settled gently across her naked body, wrapped up in just a sheet. He rolled back over, other arm resting overtop of Suzanne's belly as she snuggled in closer, and he let memories fill his mind.

To say the evening had been flawless and without awkwardness would be a lie, but Suzanne had been great through the whole thing, graciously pretending to ignore Dean's discomfort and helping him work through the unknowns. Initially, Dean had been loathe to remove the prosthetic, afraid that Suzanne might be turned off when she got the full picture. But several soft cries of 'ouch' after the prosthesis took on a life of it's own, the hard shell knocking bruises on Suzanne's lower leg, he had finally sucked it up and taken the damn thing off.

She had watched him remove it, curious as a cat, but to her credit she never asked questions and she never once flinched or turned away at the sight. Instead, she had moved forward, leaning down and kissing the healed scar across the bottom of his leg before making her way up his body to his lips. She stopped at every scar she found along the way, kissing each one gently as her deep, throaty voice made mention of them being hero's wounds. It was as though she could read his insecurities as if they were written in bold twenty point across his body, and every word out of her mouth was designed to calm him, comfort him. _Big. Brave. Strong. Heroic. Fearless. Courageous. _Every now and then she'd asked a question about the harsher of the injuries, but they were all yes and no questions, and Dean was able to just nod in the affirmative before she moved on.

Sex itself had been awkward at first, Dean's reliance on his own abilities being brought into question. For him, sex was normally wild and carnal, and there was no reason it still couldn't be but he had to get used to not having that left foot to brace against the bed with, and he had to find a different way to keep his knee from sliding across the sheet. But with some complicated maneuvering and positioning, the two of them found a way to make it work and the rest had been nothing short of perfect.

As Dean lay beside Suzanne, taking in the sight of the woman who had unknowingly managed to give him his life back, he wondered why it had taken him so long to feel this comfortable with himself. This had been easy; so easy, in fact, that for a short time he'd even managed to forget all together about his leg. And that hadn't happened since the day he'd woken up and heard from Sam that the leg was gone. Even in his dreams and nightmares he thought about the missing leg, about all he had lost, about all he would never gain. But last night had changed all that. He felt whole. Complete. And short of going back out on the hunt, he had come full circle since the day of the accident.

Suzanne stirred as she began to wake up, moving restlessly in Dean's arms until she had turned herself over onto her back. Blinking, she looked up into Dean's sparkling green eyes and smiled a genuine smile at the man who held her in his arms.

"You're still here," she remarked, surprised, but noticeably pleased.

"You disappointed?" Dean asked, his heart jumping a bit inside his chest as he wondered if he had misjudged her.

"Of course not," she cooed. "Just surprised."

"I, uh...I don't have a ride home?" Dean offered in mock defiance to her comment, making sure the amusement was clear in his voice. Although, he did actually need a ride home, but that wasn't the point.

She punched him playfully on the arm and Dean grinned. "Besides," he added. "I had fun last night. I didn't want the night to end." Mentally, he kicked himself for sounding like such a sentimental sap. But Suzanne just brushed it off as she had done with everything else. If it wasn't for his nomadic and all too secretive lifestyle, he could see himself trying to get to know this girl better. But he knew that couldn't happen, and he also knew what 'psychologist' Sam would say. _You're just latching on to her because she showed you compassion, and you're scared you won't find other women like her. Move on, dude, there are plenty more out there who won't care. _Sure, the night was fun, but he had to end this.

"So...breakfast?" Suzanne offered hopefully, sitting herself up a little higher, wrapping herself in the sheet.

_Break it off, man,_ Dean reminded himself. He shook his head apologetically, all too aware that he still had to get back to Missouri's. "Wish I could, but my brother's gonna be waiting for me back home. I kinda promised him I'd get up early to help him with something."

She nodded, disappointed, but understanding and pulled herself from the bed. "But you need a ride home?" She bent down to collect the clothes that littered the floor, tossing Dean his jeans.

"Yes, please?" he asked hopefully, reaching over the side of the bed for his underwear before he could pull the jeans on. A small sense of foreboding still managed to envelop him as he saw the prosthesis laying on the ground, realizing that he had yet to extract himself from the covers. With the daylight shining through the window, it would shed a whole new light on what was left of his leg, and he wasn't sure he wanted that to be the last thing Suzanne saw before he left her. And then he stopped, smacking himself in the head as he berated himself. _Get a hold of yourself, man. You got this far. Just chill out. _

With a deep breath, Dean convinced himself to grab the leg and swing free of the tangle of covers he was hidden beneath. He worked quickly, not unaware that Suzanne was watching him through the mirror as she pulled up her hair and did her makeup. Yet again, he found himself amazed and relieved that the only emotion seeming to cross her face was a piqued curiosity that only appeared to turn her on more. If anything, it actually weirded him out just a bit. The fact that she was so accepting of his disability when he had been so certain that no girl would ever find it anything other than repulsive was a little unnerving. But he managed to push through it, tried to conceitedly remind himself that he was such a sexy beast the ladies just couldn't see any imperfections. And it was enough. It got him through the rest of the morning, and stayed with him during the drive back to Missouri's house, settling within his subconscious as score one for the ladies man.

xxxxxxxxxx

Sunlight shined brightly through the half-opened curtains when Sam finally woke up again, and he rolled over in the bed, eyes blinking several times before he focused on Dean's empty bed, the comforter still smoothed out and perfectly spread across the bed in pointed indication that it had never been slept in. Sam smiled as he looked at the alarm clock. 8:03. He wondered what Dean was doing right then. His mind worked overtime as his curiosity worked its way to the forefront of his thoughts, desperate to know how Dean had fared.

Climbing from the bed, Sam grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, pulling them on quickly before making his way downstairs for some breakfast. From the kitchen, he could smell Missouri cooking bacon on the stove and he eagerly padded his way through the hallway, following the meaty aroma.

"Morning," he chirped, making a beeline to the coffee bot and pouring himself a mugfull. "Good Morning yourself, Sam. Did you boys have fun last night?" Missouri turned form

the stove for a minute to greet Sam, eyeing him with a mischievous twinkle.

Sam nodded, padding to the refrigerator for the creamer. He poured some in and added sugar before retreating to the kitchen table. "Dean hasn't even made it back yet. I left him at the bar with his newest conquest, and I'm guessing they're still together."

If the robust black woman was surprised, she didn't show it, instead turning back to the stove to flip her bacon. "I'm sure he's fine, Sam," she assured him, alleviating the fears she knew were circling his mind. "He'll be home soon."

Sam shrugged, staring down at his coffee in thought. "I know he's fine," he replied, more for his own sake than Missouri's. "I just worry about him, ya know?"

"We all do, Sam. But you've just got to accept that he'll come around on his own time. If he stayed out with that young lady last night, I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that he's starting to adjust. He'll be the old Dean in no time."

"I hope you're right, Missouri. Cause I'm not sure how much more of moody Dean I can take."

Giving a sympathetic smile of understanding, Missouri collected the cooked bacon from the frying pan and blotted the excess grease off it before setting it on a plate in front of Sam. Sam grabbed a slice and took a big bite out of the hot meat as Missouri returned to the stove to start a second batch.

"I've got scrambled eggs keeping warm in the microwave," she offered, motioning with her spatula across the room where the white appliance sat.

Eager for more food, Sam was out of his chair and halfway across the room when his phone rang. Thinking it might be Dean, Sam hurriedly pulled the cell from his pocket, surprised to see an unknown number displayed across the screen.

"Dean?" he answered quickly, figuring his brother must have been calling from the girls house or from a payphone somewhere. He was surprised to hear the thick southern drawl of their father's old hunting ally, Joshua, on the other end instead of the expected Dean.

"Joshua? What can I do for you, man?"

It didn't take the man long to get down to business, having never been one for small talk, and Sam quickly found that he was excusing himself from Missouri's kitchen to take the call in the privacy of the living room. Sam sank down heavily into the soft couch cushions, threading his fingers through his tangle of long hair as he listened to what Joshua had to tell him.

As Dean and Sam had distanced themselves from all things supernatural while waiting for Dean to heal, Bobby had called upon some hunter buddies of his to return to the Algonquin woods to finish what the brother's had started, thus helping Sam to keep his promise that he not return there without Dean. But Joshua had only just received word that the mauled bodies of those two men had been found less than a week ago, the corpses likely at least two weeks old. And seven bodies of campers had been found in the last month as well.

Knowing that Dean was out of commission, Joshua had started making his way up to Canada to do his own inspection of the woods when he received word of another, more pressing hunt just an hour away from where he was at the time. Something about multitudes of children being kidnapped and sacrificed once every ten years and there only being a three day time period for which to do anything about it - Sam was hazy on the details because he hadn't really paid much attention to that part of the story. But what it all boiled down to was the fact that there was nobody available to go back up to Algonquin and deal with the spirit, and Joshua was afraid Sam might hear about the hunter's deaths and decide to make his way back up there after all.

He assured Sam that he would be on his way up to deal with the spirit just as soon as he took care of the issue with all the child sacrifices.

"How long is that going to be?" Sam demanded, his mind already working overtime to figure out how he might be able to sneak away to take care of this himself. He knew where he needed to be looking, and he now knew how stupid it would be to stay out there anywhere past dark. He knew the tricks. The secrets. He could take care of this before Joshua would even be able to make it into the northern part of the country, saving God only knew how many lives in the process.

Guilt had already begun to eat away at him hearing from Joshua just how many people had perished as he obediently followed Dean to Kansas, diving full force into his brother's recovery. There was no question that he would have done everything to be with Dean throughout the whole thing; no way he had ever even considered traipsing across the country going after new hunts. But they had left the job unfinished; the spirit in Algonquin was still alive and more vengeful than ever, and people were dying because Dean had been too insecure and too stubborn to let Sam go out without him.

Upon hearing Joshua's response, that it could be another week or more before he could make it up to Canada, Sam let out an agitated sigh. "It's too long," he complained. "It shouldn't have even taken this long. I should have been paying closer attention to what was going on."

"And what would you have done, Sam? You needed to be worrying about Dean. He's the priority right now." Joshua rationalized on the other end.

""The priority was just to keep him safe," Sam insisted, running his hands through his hair once again in frustration. "I could have taken care of the spirit myself –"

"And you know how well that would have gone over," Joshua interrupted sternly. And Sam did know. He knew just how likely it would have been for Dean to find out what he was up to, and the next thing he knew Dean would have been dragging himself in after Sam. Even if he'd had to crawl on his hands and knees, Dean would have found some way to chase after his little brother, and that would have spelled out disaster in more languages than Sam could even list.

But instead of admitting to Joshua's accurate reading of the situation, Sam just groaned and ended the conversation. "Thanks, Joshua, for letting me know what's up. I'll figure something out."

"Sam, I didn't call you to get you out there," Joshua warned.

"I know. Thanks for calling. Keep me updated on your sacrifice thing."

Sam hung up the phone, letting out a large breath as he worried about the facts he had just heard about. And within seconds, he discovered he had something else to be worried about as he finally heard the noise he should have honed in on several minutes sooner; the soft click of Dean's cane tapping against the wood floor. _Shit. _

It wasn't very long before Dean peeked his head around the entryway, a cautious smile on his impassive face. For a minute, Sam entertained the possibility that Dean had literally _just_ walked into the house, hopefully missing the entire conversation he had just had with Joshua. He went for that option first, letting his curiosity shine through in genuine emotion.

"How was your night?"

Dean scowled, not willing to let Sam get away with changing a topic he knew full well needed to be attended to. "It's eight thirty the next morning. How do you think things went?"

Sam smiled tentatively, still grabbing at straws to keep the conversation trained on Dean.

"Dean, that's great. I'm so–"

"Sam, if you say you're happy for me, I swear to god I'll kick your ass. Now what was that phone call about?"

Stammering and wringing his hands nervously at the question, Sam stood to give himself the height advantage before innocently asking, "What phone call?"

It was weak; a weak response to a question that was anything but, even if he _hadn't_ been caught with the stupid phone in his hand as he hung it up. The words had barely left Sam's mouth before he knew with absolute certainty that Dean wasn't buying the act.

"Cut the crap, Sam," Dean ordered, limping across the room and flopping heavily into an easy chair across from the couch Sam had just vacated. He looked tired, but in a good way, yet irritation was fast taking control of his emotions. "You and I both know you were on the phone with someone, talking about a hunt." As an afterthought, he added, "Which really wouldn't be such a bad thing if it didn't sound like you're trying to keep me out of the loop. So what's going on? Spill."

Flinching as he noted the inflection of hurt in Dean's voice, Sam dropped his head and shoulders, and sagged back onto the couch in defeat. "The thing we were hunting before you...in Algonquin..." He didn't have to say anything more as the color drained from Dean's face and it went all ashen, and Sam knew Dean had figured it out.

"You don't have to be involved," Sam added hastily, and immediately slapped himself mentally. He hadn't said _we_ don't have to be involved, he'd said _you_ don't have to be involved, which clearly meant that _he_, Sam, had every intention of going out there without Dean. Yet that made it a direct challenge to his stubborn brother.

"No, Sam. You're not going up there alone. We already discussed this."

"Dean, I know we talked about it. But more people are dying while I sit around doing nothing. More _hunter's _died trying to stop it. I'm the only one who knows exactly what's going on. I'm the only one who knows how to stop it."

"Sam, it's too dangerous. You're not going out there by yourself. If you're going out there, so am I."

_Shit. Shit. Shit. Where the hell did that come from?_ If he was honest with himself, Sam could pinpoint exactly where that had come from. It was the very reason he hadn't wanted Dean to overhear the conversation with Joshua in the first place. It was the very reason he had cursed the fact that Dean managed to sneak up on him. He shook his head wildly, averting his eyes from his brother before hastily and firmly announcing, "No, Dean. You most definitely are not going."

A knot formed thick and hard in Dean's throat, and he wasn't sure if it was more in reaction to his anger at Sam suddenly thinking he was the boss over Dean, or if it was more because of the immense hurt his brother's words had created in his chest and mind. _What happened to faith? What happened to confidence? _Had it only been yesterday that Sam watched Dean discard his crutches to words of praise and hope, assuring the older man that he would be back to his old self in no time at the rate he was going. That he would be back to _hunting_ in no time. "And why is it exactly that you don't think I should get to come with you, _Benedict?_" Dean spat out angrily, forcing himself to hide the emotional pain. He had to get over these emotional outbursts that he'd become all too comfortable with lately.

Sam winced at the hurtful nickname, but held his ground. "You're not ready," he replied pointblank. It pained him to say so, tore him apart knowing what the words must be doing to his already fragile brother, but he figured it was better than watching Dean get physically hurt again if the spirit decided to come after them.

"I'm fine, Sam. I'm ready," Dean insisted plaintively.

"No, Dean. You're not. You _just _got rid of the crutches, Dean. And that's a big step," he added quickly, "but you're far from ready to hike at least four hours into the woods and four back. This has to be quick, Dean. Efficient. I can't risk–"

Dean stomped to his feet, visibly shaking as he pointed a finger menacingly at Sam. "Don't say it, Sam. Don't you dare fucking say it."

Holding up his hands in defeat, Sam backed off. "Fine, Dean. I won't say it. But it doesn't mean I'm changing my mind."

"And it doesn't mean I have to listen to you!" Dean snarled, inching closer to his brother as his hand clenched in a death grip around the cane.

"Will you listen to yourself?" Sam demanded, finally jumping back up from the couch and meeting the seething hunter in the eyes. "You sound like a spoiled child. You might as well put your fingers in your ears and start singing the la la song to drown me out. You're not ready, Dean. I'm sorry if that hurts your feelings, but I'd rather that than see you get killed."

Taking another step forward, Dean found himself just centimeters away from his little brother. Their gazes locked, held in steely determination for several long seconds as both heaved bodily, trying to regain their equilibrium. But a middle ground was not to be met that day, and Dean knew it. He was so pissed off, although whether at the words Sam spoke or the truth of those words he would never admit to himself, or anyone else for that matter. But as it stood, he found it so much easier to be mad at Sam. Finally, his eyes narrowed, breaking the gaze they held together as he raised the cane over his head. Sam held steady, unsure if Dean intended to hit him with it or not, but prepared to take the blow if necessary.

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean spat. "Just fuck you." Drawing back, he wound his arm up, and the cane flew.


	33. Chapter 33

**_Is it just me, or does it seem like its just one thing after another this site. First the document server won't upload, then the alerts aren't working. Argh, just can't win. Anyway, I'm going to post this either way. Hope you enjoy. _**

**_On a side note, I just feel the need to extend my prayers and sympathies to everyone affected by the Virginia Tech shootings. I have several friends who attended VT as undergrads, and although my alma mater is a sports 'rival' of VT I still have a lot of memories from visiting that campus. This was such an unthinkable tragedy, my heart goes out to everyone touched by massacre._**

Glass shattered and flew everywhere as Dean's airborne cane found its path just past Sam's head, over the couch, and through the big picture window behind it. Sam flinched, ducking just in time to miss being grazed by the flying weapon, an expression of shock and utter disbelief written across his paled features. Looking behind him at the now destroyed window, Sam could see shards of glass littering the bushes below the sill, and a few flecks of glass had found their way back inside to rest on the afghan hanging over the back edge of the couch.

The crash brought Missouri and Bobby running, and they both now stood in the doorway of the living room, too stupefied at the view before them to move. Missouri's hand had gone directly to her gaping mouth as she alternated between anger and concern.

"What the..." Bobby started to call before he made it to the room, but his voice trailed off as he took in the sight, hands firmly planed on his hips in a suggestion of vast confusion.

All eyes turned to Dean who, to his credit, had the sense to look ashamed. He sank, defeated, back into the chair hd had previously occupied, and refused to meet anyone's gaze. "I'm sorry, Missouri," Dean mumbled, studying his hands nervously. "I'll pay for the window."

Missouri shook her head sadly as she tentatively crossed the room to where Dean sat. Her eyes flitted back and forth between Dean and Sam, questioning just what the heck had gone down. She knew Sam's phone call had been important by the seriousness of his tone as he left the kitchen for privacy, but she didn't know if it was that, or a bad night, that had Dean so worked up. His pent up rage concerned her, but the concern didn't come close to what she felt as she viewed the results of his released anger.

"Dean, honey, what on earth happened?" the woman asked, displaying an enormous amount of composure for someone who had just had a cane thrown through her living room window, as she lowered herself into the rocking chair beside Dean, sitting barely on the edge so her knees touched his. She clasped her hands in her lap and looked straight at the young hunter, opening herself up to whatever it was he had to say.

Dean shrugged, feeling childish. He couldn't very well tell them that he'd thrown a tantrum because Sam said he couldn't go on a hunt; it would no doubt come out sounding whiny and complaintive. "It just...kinda...slipped," he explained hesitantly, figuring it was better to be slightly uncoordinated after a night out on the town than to have done it on purpose simply because he wasn't getting his way.

Sam raised an eyebrow in question, challenging Dean to tell the truth, but Dean ignored the action in favor of his convoluted lie.

But Missouri didn't need Sam dropping hints in order to figure out that Dean wasn't exactly being forthcoming with the truth. "It slipped?" she repeated skeptically. "You mean to tell me that you, Dean Winchester, master of stealth and grace on a hunt, just _accidentally_ launched a weapon hard enough to go through a plate glass window?"

_Yeah, well if you put it that way..._ Dean winced, throwing a sheepish look Missouri's way as he replied, "Um...yes?"

From the back of the room, Bobby released a snort, unable to suppress his amusement at Dean's expense. All eyes turned to the older man and he defended his actions with a simple shrug of indifference. "What? Come on, Dean, you can do better than that. I've seen you throw a convincing lie at the FBI - and this is all you can come up with?"

With everything coming at him at once, Dean decided he didn't want to deal with the inquisition anymore. It was none of their business. Sam knew the deal, and that was really all that mattered. He'd told Missouri he would pay for the window, and anything other than that didn't need to be said. He huffed, climbing to his feet unsteadily, muttering angrily as he stormed out of the room. "I don't need to take this from you people. Not now. I said I'd pay or the window - what more do you want?"

The remaining three sat silently in the room, listening to Dean's uneven footsteps as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom, unsure of the next move. Bobby finally spoke first, casting an apologetic look towards Sam. "Damn, I'm sorry," he said, looking back out in the direction that Dean had disappeared to. "I was just messing with him - I thought...hell, I don't know what I thought."

Sam shook his head, the action telling Bobby not to worry about it; it wasn't his fault. But he wasn't quite ready to talk either. He wasn't actually sure even what had just gone down. The last twenty minutes had gone by in a whirl of revelations and concerns and his head was currently reeling as he tried to figure out what decisions needed to be made.

"Alright, well someone needs to tell me what on earth just happened here," Missouri finally broke in, looking pointedly at Sam. She knew full well that he was her only source for information and she was damn well going to get it.

Feeling the stern woman's eyes boring into him, Sam released a disconcerted sigh and looked up at her. With nothing else he could do, he spilled all. "That was Joshua on the phone," he began, and then launched into the full explanation; the Algonquin spirit still haunting the woods, the fact that there was nobody to go deal with it and that those who had tried were now dead, the fact that Dean had overheard the conversation and was determined to join Sam on the hunt...

"He's not ready to hunt yet," Missouri interjected when Sam got to that point. "He's barely walking on his own."

Sam nodded in agreement, crossing his arms sternly against his chest. "I know. That's what I told him. But he's just so damn stubborn."

"Well maybe you should do what Joshua suggested and let him deal with it when he finishes this other job," Missouri suggested, leaning forward, elbows resting on her knees.

"I can't, Missouri. People are dying out there. I can't in good conscience just sit back and let more be killed when there's something I can do about it," Sam protested.

"You have a point, Sam," Bobby broke in, "But I really think you're missing the big picture here. Dean is _not_ going to let you go out on that hunt without him. And he's not ready to hunt. I don't know what else you can do but let it go."

Sam shook his head stubbornly. "He'll understand. Once I make him see that people's lives are more important than his pride–"

"And how are you going to make him see that?" Missouri queried softly. "He's already feeling totally inadequate, emasculated; how on earth can you make him see past the hurt to understand the need for you to go back there?"

"I'll figure something out."

"Sam, honey, on a good day your brother can only see one point, and that's keeping you safe; there's no way you'll figure out a way to convince him that it's a smart idea to let you go out there alone. I don't think _I_ can see the logic in that."

"I'll go with him," Bobby offered.

"And leave me home alone to deal with that boy _again? _I don't think so," Missouri protested. "It was one thing when he could barely get off the bed, but he's mobile now. It's going to take him five minutes to figure out you two have gone off and left him and he'll be well on his way to joining you. There's nothing I can do to stop him when he makes his mind up."

"Well I guess I'll just have to convince him that he's a liability, and that I'm more likely to get hurt with him along than if he stays behind. He'll understand."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "For crying out loud, Sam, did you take a stupid pill this morning? He's not going to understand anymore than you would if the positions were reversed. You're only going to succeed in doing one of two things. One, you'll piss him off enough to make him turn around and do something stupid, just to prove he's up to the task; or two, you're going to ruin any relationship the two of you ever had."

Missouri nodded in agreement. "Do you have any idea how hurt he'll be hearing his own brother tell him he can't do what's ingrained in him to do? You've got to figure out something else."

"So what am I supposed to do then?" Sam demanded, desperation apparent in his voice. "How am I supposed to tell him that he can't come with me. Not yet. It's just too soon."

"For starters, you can deal with the fact that you just told him." The sound of Dean's voice broke through the tension of the air, and Sam's head shot up frantically as he cringed.

_FUCK! How the hell does he keep doing that?_ Cursing at just how rusty he'd allowed himself to get that he'd managed to miss Dean's entrance twice in one day, Sam's face fell into a mask of guilt as he saw his brother leaning against the doorframe of the living room. His shoulders were slumped dejectedly, arms hanging limp at his side, and Sam hadn't missed the waver in his voice as he tried to push the emotion away.

"You don't want me on your stupid hunt; fine, I get it," Dean spat angrily, looking down at the ground instead of at his brother or either of the two family friends who all cast concerned gazes his way. "I just...you've been preaching to me for weeks not to let anybody tell me I can't do something. And yet, when the cards are dealt, you're the biggest hypocrite of anybody. Thanks, Sam. It's nice to finally know what you really think of me."

Sam's heart clenched and he could feel his stomach flutter unmercifully as he tried desperately to come up with a way to fix this. "Dean, please, you didn't–"

"Save it, Sam. I don't want to hear anything more that you have to say. Trust me...you've said enough." Dean pushed off from the door, car keys jangling in his hand as he made his way to the front door.

"Dean please," Sam cried, finally springing from the couch and making a beeline to the path his brother was making. "Please, wait! Just hear me out."

The door slammed shut in Sam's face, coming just millimeters from smashing into his nose. He flinched, but didn't stop, forcefully turning the handle and crashing through the doorway. Dean was halfway to the car by now, limping steadily across the lawn as though his life depended on it.

"Dean!" Sam hollered again, sprinting across the yard in chase.

Reaching the car, Dean spun around as he grabbed hold of the handle and forced the door open. He glared at Sam, red hot daggers shooting furiously at his little brother. "Damn it, Sam, just let it be!" he screamed as he lowered himself into the car. "For once in your life, just back off and let me have some time to myself!"

Sam stopped in his tracks, arms flying up in a defensive posture as he gave Dean wide berth, deciding to let the man have his request despite the daunting feeling it gave him in the pit of his stomach. There was nothing he could do. Dean already had the key in the ignition, no way that Sam could circle the car and climb in before the older man pulled away in a cloud of smoke. And Sam knew for a fact that following his brother in another car would only succeed in more erratic driving; it would only put Dean in danger. The only plan of action was no action, and it was the hardest thing Sam had had to do in a long time.

Dropping to the ground, knees pulled to his chest as he balanced on the balls of his feet, Sam dragged his hands across his face and through in hair in a futile motion of defeat and regret. _God, man, I'm so sorry. Please, just come back. We'll talk. _

For several minutes, Sam remained in that position, rocking slightly in his concern for his brother. Before too long, he felt a hand fall gently on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly.

"Sam, honey, why don't you come inside. He's not coming back for a while. He needs time to cool off."

The distraught hunter looked up into the kind eyes of Missouri Mosely, feeling an undesirable urge to just fall into the woman's warm embrace and cry out the pain and fear he'd been dealing with for far too long. But that was unmanly, and not the Winchester way, and he finally just settled for bemoaning his greatest concerns. "I really blew it this time, didn't I?"

Missouri grimaced, knowing that now, of all times, was not the time to lie. Sam needed to hear things exactly as they were; it was the only way he would be able to get past it. He needed to face it dead on. "He has a reason to be upset," she replied bluntly. "You're refusing him the only thing he's ever known. And he's right; you've been in his corner since day one, but when you're faced with the challenges he's been working so hard to accomplish you turn your back on him."

Sam's face fell as he listened to the woman's harsh, yet all too true words. "You think I'm wrong? Telling him he can't come on this hunt?"

The woman shook her head firmly. "I didn't necessarily say that, child. I'm not saying who's right in this situation. I'm simply telling you what he's thinking; how he's feeling."

"So how do I fix this?"

Sympathy clouded Missouri's face as she pushed a stray hair off of Sam's forehead, leading him back inside. "I can't answer that, Sam. I don't even think you can answer that. This is Dean's fight. He knows the truth. He knows your honest feelings. Now you just have to sit back and find out if he can manage to see the reality of this situation. Just wait, Sam. He'll come around."

"You're sure about that?" Sam sank back onto the couch, grimacing as his knuckle found a stray sliver of glass and a bright crimson immediately began to cover the skin.

Missouri winced, for both the emotional pain and the physical that he was currently feeling, and she scooped down to inspect his hand before the blood began to flow too much. "No, Sam. I wish I knew how this was going to play out, but I really don't know."

Reaching out to the box of tissues on the side table, she grabbed two and mashed them onto Sam's bleeding knuckle, ebbing the flow of blood with her firm grip. Bobby reappeared in the doorway, looking curiously at the two figures on the couch, and immediately seeing a purpose for his presence turned on his heel in search of the First Aide Kit. He returned just a minute later and handed Missouri the necessary alcohol and cotton swabs to clean out the wound before offering a band-aid as the final touch.

"Dean'll come around," Bobby assured Sam after the injured finger was cared for. "He's hard headed and stubborn, but in the end you're still his brother. That wins out over everything."

Sam nodded sadly, hoping with everything he had that the statement was accurate, and wishing that he had more time to dwell on it. But people were dying up in Algonquin, people who shouldn't have had to die if he and Dean had done their job right in the first place, and right now he had to focus on that. Dean already knew the truth about Sam's feelings on him hunting right now, there was no turning back from that. But as long as he knew, Sam figured he might as well not waste the opportunity. Right now, he had more vital stuff to worry about - Dean's feelings, as trampled as they may be, could wait another couple of days.

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Squealing around the corner, car barely on two wheels, Dean reached for the volume control on his radio and blasted the music to an almost unbearable level. He tore through the town, furiously passing car after car and nearly running down more than one civilian in a blatant disregard for the law. It was a miracle he wasn't caught by the police, and even more of one that he didn't kill anyone as he worked through his anger.

It took close to ten minutes for his rational mind to come to surface, realizing just how dangerous and reckless he was being, and finally slowed the car down to a manageable speed before pulling off onto the side of the road to simmer down. Although, his only real concern was for the car itself, and his own safety and the safety of other's be damned.

The music continued to blare through the speakers as he put the car in park, heavy bass pounding out a steady rhythm that rocked the car and rattled the glass on the windows of nearby buildings, but Dean didn't even neem to notice. He'd wiped away a single stray tear, threatening his own mind not to display that sissy reaction again, and now he simply stared out the window of the car into the nothing sky that lay beyond. His body shook violently, and his face was beet red, frustration ebbing out through every pore of his being.

Dean wasn't sure what he was more angry about; the fact that Sam had been so crass as to say such things behind Dean's back, or the fact that the words Sam spoke were the truth. He _wasn't _ready; he knew that, Sam knew that, hell – even Bobby and Missouri knew that. There was no doubt that he was getting better, but even _he_ had to admit it was hard to walk on the prosthesis for more than a few hours at a time. There was no possible way that he would be able to make a four hour hike two ways _and_ spend time in between searching for a way to eviscerate the spirit. But that didn't mean he had to listen to that logic. When had he ever cow-towed to such a menial thing?

Thinking back, Dean couldn't remember a single time that he'd let such a minor thing like an injury keep him away from a hunt. He couldn't remember being any less capable either - although, whether or not that was fuzzy logic, Dean wasn't about to mull over. So, considering that, Dean figured there was no reason why he _shouldn't_ be able to go on this hunt. _Damn you, Sam!_

Slamming his hand down hard on the steering wheel, determination began to set in. He had to prove himself, to Sam, to the rest of the world. Tight now he felt as though no one thought him able to do anything more than sit around on his ass in front of the TV collecting welfare checks. Even Sam, the one person in the entire world who he thought would never doubt him, had ultimately sentence him to a life of helplessness and neediness, yet Dean wasn't about to accept those doubts.

If Sam didn't think he was capable enough to back him on the hunt then he didn't need to go with Sam. Right then and there, Dean decided that he had a better plan of action; one that would show Sam - and everyone else - once and for all that he was just as competent now as he was before his accident.

Determination set in Dean's face as he reached down and put the car back in drive, gunning the engine as he tore out of his parking place. He had a plan.

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Glancing at the clock for what could easily have been the thousandth time of the day, Sam tried unsuccessfully to stuff another bite of potato salad in his mouth. The majority of his dinner remained on his plate, untouched, which is where the discarded bite landed as he finally decided he could no longer sit around doing nothing while Dean was god only knew where, hurting because of him and his big fat mouth.

It was going on ten hours that Dean had been gone; nine and a half too many. Sam had passed worried hours ago, and was now bordering on downright terrified. Looking around the table, he could tell that Missouri and Bobby weren't far behind him in the worry factor, but they had managed to control their fears, knowing it would only succeed in worrying Sam more.

"He's never stayed out this late," Sam lamented, scooting his chair back with a loud screech of wood against tile, before standing up and crossing the room to the dining room window. Pulling back the curtains, he scanned the street yet again, hoping this would be the time Dean's car would round the corner on it's way back to Missouri's.

"And I'm sure he'll be back very soon," Missouri replied softly, hesitant to allow herself to be too comforting. As much as she wanted to alleviate Sam's concerns, she couldn't shake the daunting feeling that something was truly amiss. She'd learned long ago not to doubt those intuitions. She knew Sam felt the same hesitations, knew something wasn't right with Dean.

Sam spun around, stricken features pleading with Missouri to reassure him more, challenging her to convince him Dean would be home within the next few minutes. The psychic shook her head sadly. _I can't give you what you want, Sam. I'm sorry._

Stalking away, Sam crossed through the house into the living room where the window Dean had smashed was now boarded up with two large sheets of plywood and covered with a single sheet of plastic. They'd retrieved his cane from the bushes, and it now hung from the back of the rocking chair, waiting for its owner's return. But somehow, Sam knew with absolute certainty that Dean wouldn't ever pick the hated piece of equipment up again, no matter how hard he might need it.

As he stared at the shiny black aide, a thought suddenly flashed through Sam's mind and a sense of dread seeped into his gut. In an instant, Sam was practically airborne as he tore frantically up the stairs into the room he shared with Dean, cursing himself as he realized what he had missed earlier. A quick scan of the room, Sam noticed the missing items: the second prosthesis, Dean's knife from under his pillow, his steel-toed boots. Sam felt like he might throw up as realization hit him like a sledge hammer to the gut, and he raced back down the stairs and back into the dining room, hollering for Missouri and Bobby as he went.

They met him at the doorway, saw his white washed face, and suddenly knew this was serious even before Sam could utter the words that had put him into a sheer panic. He panted, doubled over in his panic, and spat out the fear that engulfed him. "He's not coming back," Sam stammered, reaching for the wall to steady himself. "He's gone back to Algonquin himself. He's going to try to hunt that thing alone!"


	34. Chapter 34

**_Alright, so I'm not particularly happy with this chapter. I had guests in all weekend, and tried to pound this out in between entertaining. It's not all that exciting; more of a transition chapter. But I promise more action in the next one. We're nearing the end here, but knowing my long-windedness, end still probably means four or five more chapters. Thanks for sticking with me through the lack of alerts - I appreciate you all looking for the story anyway. _**

**_Note: So, when I started writing this way back when, I never really estimated the distance between Algonquin and Kansas. Apparently, they're car's can turn into airplanes, because they literally flew back home when they returned to Kansas. It turns out it's a 16 hour drive between the two, which I'm trying to convey this time. Please excuse the discremancy. If I ever go back and tweak the story that is one thing I will fix, but for now I'm going to leave it at this. _**

**_Enjoy..._**

It took all he had to keep himself occupied during the drive to Canada, but Dean forced himself to avoid thinking about what Sam and his supposed friends had said about him by maintaining a continuous stream of thoughts concerning the hunt running through his head. Currently, he was back on the inventory check list, running down the cache of weapons and other necessities he would certainly be needing for the hunt, and after.

With the exception of his hunting knife, they had never removed the weapons from the trunk, so he had the whole selection at his fingertips. And he had been smart enough to grab the knife before he left, so he would have that, too. From what Dean could remember of their previous encounter with the spirit, Dean knew most of their weapons would be virtually useless to the hunts' enhanced speed and uncanny ability to read their intentions and get out of the way before being hit. Salt was just a joke, and any of the normal bullets they possessed would only prove to piss the thing off more. But he planned to bring the shotgun anyway, loaded to the hilt with rounds of consecrated iron. And with any luck he would be long gone before night fell and the thing decided to reappear, but there was no guarantee. Nor was there a guarantee that the spirit would stick to its current habit of only appearing when darkness fell. Dean couldn't be certain that it wouldn't stray from the man norm and attack with a vengeance in the daylight once it realized its final lifeline was being threatened. So yes, he would definitely be packing when he entered the woods.

In the rearview mirror, Dean could make out several other items he would be bringing with him. A box of salt sat innocently on the back seat, next to a small flask of gasoline. It was just one little pouch, and he figured it was far from worth it to lug an entire gallon of gasoline into the woods. No need to set the entire forest on fire, now was there?

He could also see the map that Sam had marked on the seat, at the very least narrowing his search down to a smaller radius. There was still far too much ground to cover on that map, but Dean figured he had a decent hike to think about how to narrow down the search time.

Alongside the map were several bottles of water and some power bars that he would stuff in the pack to tide him over during the day. It always surprised him just how much less hungry he became when he was right in the middle of this big hunt, and the few bars along with lots of water would more than cover him. Of course, once the hunt was over all bets were off, and Dean normally made up for his hunger strikes three times over.

The two prosthetic legs were the last items Dean could see, and it still gave him an uneasy feeling to know that he'd had to think so much about them. His biggest fear on this solo hunt was that the carbon leg he would wear in with him would fail to hold up to its guarantee and that he would be crawling out of the forest on one leg again. When he'd left Missouri's house hours earlier, he hadn't yet figured out why the niggling feeling in the back of his mind was telling him to sneak the second leg out with him, and he was stupefied at how easy it had been to get it past Sam and the others without question. But now he was grateful for his foresight, glad to know there would be a second leg waiting for him if the first one got mangled. And if nothing else, it would make a slightly more discreet addition to his ensemble if he decided to go out and do a little celebrating after the spirit was finally dead. Despite the eventual success he'd had on his outing, Dean was far from eager to replay certain events. The more his leg looked like a leg in the future, the less uneasy he would feel.

Dean sighed loudly, trying his best to ignore the feelings of regret and fear he had at attempting this hunt solo. He was determined to prove himself once and for all, but it didn't mean he didn't feel some apprehension at the hunt he'd chosen to prove himself on. Oh well, nothing he could do about it now. What's done was done. Pressing the gas pedal down just a little harder, Dean pulled out from the line of cars he'd been following and sped past them, eager to make it to his destination.

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By the time Sam finally realized where Dean had gone, and why, Dean was already halfway to Algonquin. And it was another forty-five minutes before Sam managed to get everything packed and ready to take off after him. He hated to lose all that time, but Bobby had very rationally pointed out that it would do Dean no good at all for them to drive all the way to Canada to help him with no weapons and nothing to protect themselves with. And since Dean had taken off with the Impala with all of his and Sam's weapons in the trunk, they had to be extra certain that they collected their own complete cache of backup weapons.

Sam had tried calling Dean's cell phone multiple times by the time he, Bobby, and Missouri all piled into Bobby's truck and started their mad dash across the country. For Bobby, it felt like deja vu, as he pushed his old Chevy far beyond its capabilities, climbing over one hundred miles an hour in his desperation to close the gap in time. Leaning up against the window of the passenger seat, Sam continued to try Dean, placing calls in ten minute intervals and cursing louder and longer every time Dean failed to answer.

For a time, fear gripped Sam as he wondered if maybe Dean had already managed to make it to the Canadian park, worried that he would have risked hunting at night just for spite. But even Dean wouldn't have been that stupid - would he? And there was no possible way he could have made it all the way to Canada in the amount of time that had passed so far - he would have had to be going three times the speed limit to even be close.

Soon, though, fear turned to anger the longer Sam worried and stewed about Dean's half-cooked scheme, realizing just how contrived the whole thing was. The fifth message Sam left on Dean's phone was mostly shouted, his voice shaky with irritation and fury as he placed demands on the older hunter to call him back immediately. Hanging up the phone yet again, Sam knew Dean would be ignoring him - _again._

"Any luck?" Bobby asked, more for conversations sake than anything else. His eyes left the road for just a second to glance over at the fuming boy on the other side of his truck, then went back to watching where he was going as he waiting on an answer.

Gripping the phone tightly in one hand, Sam shook his head. "Bastard's purposely ignoring my calls," Sam spat out. He eyed the road himself, mentally urging Bobby to drive faster, despite the fact that the older hunter was currently doing thirty over the speed limit already. _Thank god for radar detector,_ Sam thought to himself as he looked at the little black box on the windshield, watching the lights flutter.

"You couldn't have expected any less from him right now," Missouri reasoned. "He's a stubborn, pig-headed man. Just like your father...just like you."

Sam flinched, hearing her unspoken words. He had gotten exactly what he'd been asking for by trying to bar Dean from this hunt. He should have expected something like this to happen. The old cliche didn't even work properly for his brother, because you could no more take the hunt out of Dean Winchester than you could take Dean Winchester out of the hunt. And now, his stupid brother had taken off to do something dumb and reckless, and would more than likely get him killed, just because Sam had tried to remove Dean from the hunting equation.

"I swear, if he gets himself killed out there, I'm going to bring him back to life just so that I can kill him again."

Bobby chuckled to himself, but went silent immediately when Sam shot him a withering look. The man had no doubt that Sam would do exactly as he said, but he also knew Sam would then bring his brother back a third time and keep him around for good. Such was the way with the Winchester's; they could fume with the best of them, but there was no greater love than that of the two boys.

"With any luck, we'll make it there before Dean has a chance to do anything stupid. You have to remember, Sam, at this point that leg is just going to slow him down. We'll catch up sooner or later."

"I'm just afraid it's going to be later. He had nearly half a day's jump on us; even if he's doing the speed limit, there's no way we'll catch up to him before he makes it to the park. He'll still have a few hours on us in there."

"So we run when we get there," Bobby stated matter-of-factly.

And then Missouri had an idea. "Give me your cell phone, Sam."

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Grabbing his phone from the seat beside him, Dean flipped it open and played the newest voicemail, deleting it without ever actually listening. He could well imagine the message Sam had left him without needing to actually hear the details. And a part of him worried that guilt would somehow manage to overtake him if he actually heard Sam's worried voice coming through the amplifier.

Sam was worried, freaked out, scared out of his mind; of that, Dean could be certain because it was the exact same emotions Dean himself would be feeling on the reverse. But right now, that just didn't matter to him. He was too pissed off to be compassionate, too determined to think clearly. The only way he could prove himself and get Sam and the others to stop looking at him as though he was some cripple that needed to be coddled was to go out and take care of this damn spirit himself. His only regret was that he hadn't managed to gather more information from Sam before the day's events had taken place. It would have been nice to know exactly what he was searching for and where.

As of now, all he had were skimmed details. One pouch left, buried anywhere in a five mile radius of the southernmost porting of the park. But Sam had never shown him what the pouches had looked like, and he'd never given him any indication of where _not_ to look within the area. He knew Sam and Bobby had covered a portion of the ground already, but Sam had kept mum about where exactly.

Looking down at the clock, Dean realized he'd been on the road for well over nine hours already. But with the exception of a couple quick stops for gas and to use the bathroom, Dean hadn't paused in his efforts to put as much distance between himself and Sam in as little time as possible. Now, his stomach growled greedily, reminding him that he _had_ to stop soon to eat. He couldn't ignore its complaints anymore.

The next exit boasted several fast food joints, places he could just zip right in and back out easily, and he veered onto the exit ramp. Choosing the first one he came across, Dean pulled into the drive-thru lane and placed his order, tapping nervously on the steering wheel. It hadn't escaped his thoughts that, despite his almost nine hour head-start, Sam would fast be gaining on him. Driving fast and reckless wasn't a good idea for a wanted man, so until he hit the Canadian border he had to abide by the speed limit; Sam didn't. And then there was the pesky little matter of timing - if he arrive in Algonquin too late, he would have to wait until the next day to set out, and Sam and the others would surely catch up to him by then. No, he had to make it by early morning, and that meant no more stops than were absolutely necessary.

As he pulled back onto the highway, burger in hand and French-fries clenched between his legs, Dean glanced down into the foot well and at the stump of his leg hanging in mid-air over the edge of the seat. He'd elected to go without the prosthesis for the majority of the drive, knowing he would be spending sun up to sundown limping on the thing. He figured it best to give his leg a nice long break before subjecting it to such torture, and then another, equally long hiatus, if it got him through this hunt in one piece.

As if on cue, the limb started to ache, and Dean reached a hand down to massage it gently, all the while cursing the timing. "Not now, damn it. Please, not now." He hadn't dealt with phantom pain in several days now, and he'd come to believe the worst was over. But that was far from the truth as the slight ache escalated into a dull throb and then finally into a full onslaught attack that could only be dealt with by pulling over to the side of the road.

He couldn't see straight as he jerked the wheel to maneuver the car onto the shoulder and put the transmission into park. As though his stupid leg had been saving up the pain for several days, the stabbing pins and needles sensation he was feeling was worse than any he'd felt before. Dean Rubbed desperately, frantically, at the taunting limb, finally resorting to actually pounding at the pain with his fist. He needed to limb to wake up, to realize that this was _not_ the time, or the place, to be torturing him so severely. He had somewhere he needed to be. He had to get there soon, had to get there first, and this _so_ was not helping his plan.

Shaky hands reached into the bag lying on the backseat, fumbling for the bottle of pills he'd managed to snatch from the kitchen cabinet before he'd left. He hated to take anything, knowing one of the side-effects for the strong acting medication, was drowsiness. But he figured he could counteract that problem with several strong shots of espresso. It was a much better option than sitting in this car for the next hour or more waiting for the pain to reside in his god-damn leg enough for him to be able to get back on the road.

Pulling the container from his duffle, Dean brought it to the front, and botched his first three attempts to remove the cap before he finally got it open. He dry swallowed two of the while pills, twice his normal dose. But this was an extreme case. And extreme cases called for extreme measures. He had no other choice.

Dean allowed the medication only five minutes to take effect, and gave himself that same small increment of time to close his eyes and try to get in a power nap, his food long since forgotten on the passenger seat beside him, the fries littering the floor. If he was in his right mind, he might have taken offense to his own blatant disrespect of his beloved Chevy, but he was too intent on massaging out the pain in his leg, too far gone calculating exactly how much time he would lose to this little incident.

A five minute power nap soon gave way to an hour plus, and he woke himself with a jolt to the feel of a semi barreling past him as its shook the car. "Shit!" he screamed, looking at the clock and realizing just how much time had passed. A string of more profane expletives left his mouth after that, and he quickly spun the key in the ignition and pulled out onto the road without giving himself time to fully wake up. Cars honked their horns at him as they swerved into the other lane to avoid hitting the spastic driver who hadn't even bothered to look before merging back into the oncoming traffic, but Dean barely took notice, casually giving the one fingered salute as he bared down on the gas pedal, desperate to make up the missed time.

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Sam cocked an eyebrow at the older woman, but handed her the phone without question. Watching as she punched some buttons, Sam waited somewhat impatiently to find out her ploy. From the driver's seat, Bobby couldn't hide his curiosity either but maintained his attention to the road, knowing the speed at which he was going required a careful eye and no distraction.

From Missouri's end of the conversation, both men were quickly able to deduce her idea, and Sam smiled at the simple ingenuity of the thing, smacking himself for not thinking of the idea first. She'd called information and gotten the number for Algonquin's main line, and then obtained the number for the ranger station near their entrance. From there, it was a piece of cake as Missouri explained their quandary to the person on the other end.

"His name's Dean. He's about six feet tall, good looking, dark blonde hair cut short. He'll probably be wearing jeans and a black leather jacket, and he'll walk with a limp - very likely favoring his left leg," Missouri described to the ranger, speaking slow so the man could write down the information. The wise woman purposefully left out the last name, knowing it was very likely that he would register under a false name. She just hoped he didn't decide to be totally obscure and register with a false first name, too.

After the ranger had written everything down, he must have asked a question or said something because Missouri nodded her head vigorously, as though the man could see her, and continued. "I know it's an odd request, but we need you to keep him out of the woods. Do whatever you have to do; arrest him if you need to. But if you let that young man go into the woods by himself he'll be coming out in a body bag. And I know you don't want to know what his brother will do to you if he dies. And after him, you'll have to answer to me."

Sam gaped, eyes widened at the fact that Missouri had just threatened the man on the other end of the phone. _Way to go, Missouri!_ He knew the woman to be spunky and demanding, but he'd never expected to ever see this side of her.

There must have been some stammered acceptance of the rules laid out to him, Sam couldn't see it happening any other way, and then Missouri replied with, "I knew you would see things my way sir. Thank you very much, and you have a pleasant day." She hung up the phone, smiling smugly at the two men gawking at her.

"There now. Dean won't be entering those woods anytime soon," she promised.

If only it were truly that easy.


	35. Chapter 35

**_Sooo, I experienced a bout of insomnia yesterday morning and wrote my little heart out from about 3:30 in the morning until I had to get ready for work. I had some great stuff. The thing about not getting any sleep, though, is that you make stupid mistakes. So I failed to save it, and then when I went to close the program I hit no instead of yes and ended up losing all my hard work. Argggh. So then I went to work and wrote my little heart out again, in between interuptions and real life anyway, just trying to remember what I had written. So now I'm all disappointed, because you can never recreate anything to look nearly as good as the original. So I don't know that this is bad, but it's not as good as it was and that sucks. What's a girl to do? Anyway, in honor of the alerts being back up I thought I would go ahead and post tonight. Enjoy the chapter. Thanks for finding the story even when we were having so many site problems. _**

Red seemed to be the only thing Dean could see as he stormed through the forest. He was pissed off beyond all reason. Red seeing, fire breathing, tree punching foot stomping, royally pissed off, mad. It wasn't enough that Sam had attempted to order him to stay off the hunt. It wasn't enough that he and Missouri and Bobby had made it perfectly clear that they thought him totally incapable of even going with them _to_ Canada, let alone go trekking into the woods with the other two hunters. And then, to really nail it home, they'd gone and put an alert on him at the ranger's station. Oh, Sam was _so_ gonna pay the next time Dean saw him.

It had taken him a full half hour to realize Ranger Mike was not as klutzy and disorganized as he seemed, nor was he really as gabby as he was making himself out to be, all _lovely weather out there, eh? _And _you're not from around here, you sure you want to be cavortin' out in those woods by yourself?_ When Dean finally realized it was all stall tactics, and that the guy really seemed to be forcing the conversation, he came close to losing it.

"Are you gonna give me a day pass or not?" he'd demanded harshly, causing the skinny ranger to cower a little before managing to compose himself. Drawing his height up so that he came to Dean's chin instead of his shoulders, the little man tried to impose authority over the leather-clad charge before him.

"It's my job to keep people safe going out there," he hedged cautiously, his eyes never leaving Dean.

"Yeah, well you could say that's my job too," Dean leered back. "I'd like my pass now."

"I can't do that."

Dean's eyes widened in disbelief. _Oh no, you didn't just say to me what I think you said. _He bit. "And why exactly is that?"

If the man had had even the slightest hint of common sense, he would have told Dean precisely what he needed to know right then and there. But the fact that they hadn't managed to keep people out of the woods even with all the killings taking place pretty much proved that the Algonquin rangers were not hired for their common sense - at least not the ones at this particular station. So instead of coming clean and saving his own ass, the man simply shrugged and announced that "I'm sorry, son, I just can't help you."

Dean rolled his eyes and squared his shoulders before looking the man straight in the eye, glowering. "Wrong answer," he sneered as his hand shot out and grabbed the man by the throat. "I want you to leave a message for the people that called you and told you not to let me through. When they get here, you tell them that I'm sick and tired of them meddling in my business. Tell them that I'm a grown man and I can make my own decisions without them holding my hand to do it. And when you're done with that, you make sure to let them know that it will take a lot more than a ranger to keep me from going out there. You got me?"

As he spoke, his hand clenched tightly around the man's neck, Ranger Mike had been growing progressively redder in the face as the majority of his air supply was cut off. He nodded quickly in Dean's grasp, desperate to be freed from the stronghold he'd been placed under.

"Say it," Dean growled. "I want you to _say_ that you'll tell them."

"I will," the man squeaked out.

"You'll what?"

"I'll tell them what you told me. That they can't stop you from going out there."

Dean's grip loosened, and he patted the guy condescendingly on the top of the head. "I knew you'd see things my way," he mocked, giving the man a few seconds to catch his breath before holding out an impatient hand for the day pass.

And that had been that. Dean had snatched the pass from the man's hand and tore out of the small hut in a huff. Climbing back into his car, Dean pulled out in a cloud of dust to make the final fifteen minute drive to the entrance of the trail.

That had been over two hours ago and Dean was now making fast progress through the woods as the morning sun came through the trees, lighting his path. His leg was already throbbing, the phantom pains giving way to real ones as he traversed the uneven terrain of the forest floor. It had only taken him a few minutes to realize just how stupid it had been to leave his cane at home, and he'd lost precious time searching for a suitable walking stick to replace the despised contraption.

Of course, now that meant his hand hurt _and_ his leg hurt because he was putting so much pressure on his hand, trying to ease the pressure on his leg. Sticks weren't exactly meant to be used as canes, what with their rough edges and extra knobs. He stopped for a minute, giving his hand and leg a rest, and took a look at the already scratched palm, wincing. He could only think that at least it wasn't his shooting hand that he was messing up, and then reshouldered the duffle with all his stuff and continued on. He didn't have unlimited minutes to waste. He had to finish this before Sam and Bobby found him.

Quickening his pace, Dean forced himself to stop dwelling on the pain, instead watching straight ahead of him to be sure he was following the right path. Everything looked the same to him, all the trees, the underbrush, rocks, and if it wasn't for the footpath worn into the ground by hundreds of past visitors over the years he feared he wouldn't have been able to find his way back to where he needed to be. The map could only do so much when landmarks were so few and far between. Taking another look at the map, Dean discovered that he should be coming up on a small stream not far from where he was. He began to dwell on that, wondering just how wide the stream would be and how difficult it would be to get across. And that's when the toe of his prosthesis found the root sticking up from the ground seconds before he found himself sprawled on the forest floor.

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Thanks to Bobby's extreme speed and Dean's unplanned stops along the way, the trio pulled up to the rangers station a little less than two hours after Dean left it only to find a very shaken and red necked Ranger Mike huddled at his desk. The man's eyes narrowed when he noted their frantic movements and hurried line of questions, realizing without introduction that these were the people who had set the lunatic on him a couple hours earlier.

Finger shaking furiously, the man rose from his chair, eyes locked on Missouri because he knew the call had come from a woman and she was the only woman present. "You!" He boomed nervously, the fact that these people could be just as dangerous and high-strung as his previous visitor not totally leaving his mind. "Do you have any idea what your friend did to me?"

_Uh oh_. Sam alternated between fighting off a smirk and fighting off unadulterated anger as he realized just what his brother could possibly have been capable of when backed into a corner like they'd done. None of them had truly considered the repercussions of their actions, not only towards the ranger, but for this entire hunt, as they had moved forward blindly.

Missouri remained calm, meeting the man's steely eyed gaze with a gentle one of her own. "Sir, I'm so sorry if that boy caused you any harm. If we'd believed he would actually lay a hand on you, I promise I would never have asked you to do what I did. But you see, he's been terribly injured recently and he's determined to prove that he's still as competent as he once was, and we were terribly worried for his well-being. I'll stay here with you and hammer out some form of compensation, but you need to tell young Sam and Bobby here which trail he set out on before we lose anymore time in all this. Please, you understand."

Somehow, the ranger melted at Missouri's quickly spun apology and returned to his desk immediately. "I understand," he replied firmly. "Got me a boy, too. I'd be terrified if he'd gone out there when he wasn't ready. There's something out there killing people, ya know."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, we know. He's out there trying to stop it. That's why we're so freaked out."

"He's what? What in the name of all things holy would possess that kid to try something so stupid?" the ranger spat, turning around with a map in his hand and crossing back to his visitors.

"Exactly. So that map?" Sam held his hand out a little impatiently, motioning with his fingers to urge the man to move faster.

Ranger Mike stumbled over his words as he sprang to action, handing over the map and pointing to Dean's point of entry. Sam and Bobby wasted no more time, rushing out the door with a hastened 'thank you' before leaving Missouri and the ranger alone to do whatever it was she planned to do for the remainder of the day. Bobby's truck roared to life and hurried down the dirt path towards Dean's point of entry as Sam prepared their weapons bags. They could afford to waste no time when they arrived, and Sam had them ready so that they could literally take off down the trail the minute the truck came to a complete stop.

Sam was out of the car and a couple hundred yards down the trail before Bobby even had his door shut. The older man hollered to him, ordering him to slow down with a firm explanation that it would do Dean no good if they were exhausted when they finally caught up with the rogue hunter. "Trust me, Sam, even walking fast we'll catch up with him soon. He's not going to be moving that fast."

Nodding, Sam slowed to match Bobby's quick gate. He couldn't help but feel resentful of his brother as they fell into a steady pace, couldn't help but be annoyed at the fasct that they'd been rushed into this. Sam would have much preferred to go in prepared for the fight. But instead, he and Bobby had only a third of the weaponry they should have been carrying and none of the sleep. All because Dean couldn't take a little criticism about I being too soon for him to fight. Stupid, stubborn, pig-headed Dean.

_Dean_. Lately, it had been all about Dean. What Dean wanted. What Dean needed. What was best for Dean. So here they were, risking their lives for his determined ass, because that's what Winchester's did. They saved each other from the things that go bump in the night, and, more often than not, from themselves. And Bobby was close enough to being a Winchester that he was willing to risk his own life for the boys, too. He may not have been blood, but the man was the closest thing to family they had.

"I swear to god, I'm going to kick his ass all the way from here to Timbuktu," Sam threatened as he shifted the pack on his shoulder, redistributing the weight. "I can't believe he tried to threaten that poor ranger.

"He's desperate, Sam," Bobby reasoned, feeling a need to play devil's advocate despite the voice inside his head cheering Sam's raving's on. "He feels like everyon's against him right now and he's just trying to prove us wrong. It's daylight, just calm down. We'll find him long before it's too late."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, "Except there's so much more that could happen to him even without the spirit on the loose. It wasn't the spirit that got his leg, it was a bear trap, Bobby. And moreover, what's to say the spirit won't make some kind of appearance as soon as it realizes what we're up to. There's no rule that says it has to lay dormant during the day."

"But it has so far."

"Yeah, like that's stopped it from changing it up on us. When we came out here the first time it was supposed to be a bear. And from there it moved on to a wolf and then a moose. Who the hell knows what it's going to be next? It's unpredictable. And an unpredictable spirit is a dangerous spirit. No ifs, ands or buts about it. He's in danger out there by himself."

Bobby had to admit, he couldn't argue with that logic. It seemed that every counter-attack he could come up with only fueled Sam's overactive imagination even more. If he continued to reassure the young hunter he feared Sam might imagine Dean lying dead in a stream somewhere. He shut his mouth, speeding up without complaint as Sam began to quicken his pace. He understood Sam's concerns, more than he wanted to admit, and he was just as anxious to get moving as the youngest Winchester.

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"Shit!" Dean cursed loudly, his voice echoing though the trees as he pounded his fist furiously against the ground. A string of expletives flew from his mouth, harsh enough to make a sailor blush, as he cursed the bastard contraption that had failed to warn him of his impending fall. Once again, he found himself brutally reminded of all he had lost, the fact that a prosthesis would never have the sensations of a real leg hammering the point home. Pulling himself up slowly, he performed a mental inventory of his body, searching for serious injury. Save a few barely bleeding scrapes on his elbows and palms, and about a dozen new bruises to add to his fast growing collection, he deemed himself no worse for wear and finished getting up. Only his ego was bruised, but that damage was more due to Sam's words than to his most recent spill.

It didn't mean he wasn't pissed off, though, and he was determined to punish anything that got in his way, whether it be Sam, the spirit, or some poor unsuspecting tree root that just happened to have sprouted in the wrong place at the wrong time. Reaching down to the ankle holster he had secured to the prosthesis, he removed his trusted knife and crouched beside the offending root. It only took a few swipes from Dean's extra-sharp blade to slice clean through, and with an angry flourish Dean threw the thing off into the foliage to rot.

He stood again, brushing the dirt off his clothes before collecting his pack and the other items that had spilled on the ground in his fall. They had gone everywhere, the pack off to his right, the walking stick several feet in front of where he had fallen, and his shotgun out behind him. He growled as he bent to pick up each item, and winced when the residual limb issued a slight cry of pain for each movement. He knew, without a doubt, that he would push himself long enough to find the last bag. Always managed in the past, always would in the future. What he wasn't sure about was whether or not he would make it back out of the woods once he was done.

Right now, though, wasn't the time to dwell on it. He was wasting precious time. With the walking stick in one hand, Dean pressed forward, erasing all thoughts from his mind about the pain in his leg or rough edges of the walking stick rubbing against his scraped up palm. Up in the distance he could hear the gentle trickling of the stream and looked back down to his map to confirm his location, checking to see where the best place to cross might be. With his luck of late, he wasn't too excited to be crossing through a body of water, no matter how shallow it might be. But there was nothing he could do about it. He had to cross the stream to get to the vicinity of the last pouch, and he had to find the pouch to get rid of the spirit. It was a vicious cycle, he knew it, but determination would win out.

Dean had been right to worry about the stream. The combination of slippery rocks and fast moving water made it difficult to find a firm foothold with his good leg, and the fact that he couldn't even feel where the prosthesis was planted made him watch the false limb like a hawk. He slipped several times, nearly losing his balance as he tried to cross the ten foot span of water, but somehow he managed to make it across in one piece. And several minutes later, as he grumbled yet again about the hated feel of wet jeans sticking to his leg, he finally accepted one upside to his despised new leg. The jeans could stick to it all they wanted and he couldn't feel it to be annoyed.

Looking down at his map once more, Dean estimated that he'd gone more than halfway. But then he looked at his watch and cursed, because the span he'd traversed had taken him three hours already. By his math, that meant at least another two if not three more before he arrived at his search destination. There just wasn't time for this. The more time he wasted hiking _to _the spot, the less time he would have to actually look.

For the first time since he's started out, he actually allowed himself to admit that maybe Sam had been right to keep him home. Thinking about it, admitting it, made Dean's chest ache and his heart feel like it was about to break right in half. He hated feeling so helpless. Hated feeling so...disabled. Hated that label.

And then he heard the rustling in the bushes behind him and realized there was no time to dwell on what he could and couldn't do any more. The time had come to take action. Slowly, cautiously, Dean turned around and aimed his gun, finger tight on the trigger.


	36. Chapter 36

**_Here it is, chapter 36. I hope the wait wasn't too long. Again, thank you guys so much for sticking with this for so long. When I first started, I never dreamed this would go on for as long as it has. But I think (I hope) that it hasn't ended up being too long and drawn out for a story. Thanks a bunch for all your awesome support. I couldn't be doing this without you! Enjoy..._**

Dean's hand held tight to the gun, finger a hair's width from pulling the trigger. His breath hitched, and he held it in, not wanting his ragged breathing to give away his location. Eyes scanning for the location of the intruder, Dean very slowly turned around, looking up, down, and all around. And came up with nothing.

Behind him, another rustling sound came and he spun quickly, silently, on his one good foot, aiming the shotgun in the direction of the noise. His heart jumped as something finally burst through the bushes and he fired, missing the little brown bunny by mere millimeters as it hopped across the trail and disappeared harmlessly into the foliage on the other side.

Reaching out a hand to settle himself on a tree trunk, Dean sank to his knees. "It was just a freakin' rabbit. Damn it, dude, get a hold of yourself," he reprimanded out loud, desperately sucking in deep breaths in an effort to calm down. His head swam, images of his previous encounter with the spirit filtering in and out between flashes of his mangled leg, locked in the bear trap. The rabbit may have been harmless, but it had certainly brought back a flood of memories he didn't need right now; not if he wanted to be on top of his game.

It hadn't occurred to Dean that he might have monsters to face other than just the haunting spirit when he returned to the woods for the hunt; monsters that would take a lot more than consecrated iron and a salt and burn to get rid of. He hadn't considered the possibility that they might all come flooding back to him at once in a crippling realization of what these hunts were capable of, and what he no longer was able to do. They were right - Sam and Bobby and Missouri - they were right all along. He wasn't ready for this. And the longer he sat there on the ground, frantically seeking a reprieve from this all consuming bout of panic, the more he wondered if he would ever be ready for another hunt.

"God, who am I kidding?" he asked the wood nymphs through deep breaths. And as if to confirm his revelation, his leg began throbbing, reminding him of the three hours worth of torture he'd just put it through in order to discover his uselessness. He sighed, heavy head falling into his upturned palm as the other hand reached out desperately to massage the throbbing limb. On the forefront of his mind lay the inevitable question - get up and head back home, wait for Sam and Bobby to arrive and finish the job? Or risk dying just to prove his own worth, let stubbornness win out? Neither option was ideal. But the longer he remained where he was, agonizing over the lesser of two evils, the more opportunity he lost to the luxury of making his own decision. Until all time was lost, and the decision was made for him.

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With all the stalls and limitations that befell Dean, Bobby and Sam caught up with him sooner than they expected. From several hundred feet away, Sam could finally make out Dean's silhouette through the treeline, hunched down on the ground, back against a large trunk. He looked defeated, exhausted, and Sam's first instinct was to take off after him. Bobby was a step ahead of Sam, and his arm shot out, putting a stop to the young hunter's momentum before he could take two steps forward.

"Sam, stop!" Bobby hissed, pulling the young boy back, and down, camouflaging their position from the potential of Dean's hawk eyes. "Wait!"

Sam turned, glared at Bobby with irritation and belligerently demanded, "Why?"

"Because the last thing Dean needs is for you to go running in, guns ablaze, and save him. He's mad enough at you as it is, Sam. You've found him. You know where he is and you can see him to keep him safe. Now back off and let him do this, got it?"

Cocking his head and raising an eyebrow, Sam considered Bobby's order. The older man was absolutely right. If he was to go running to Dean now, the only thing it would cause was another fight. And they couldn't afford that just then; not with some spirit on the loose, not with lives at stake. And as far as Dean had come, regardless of how stupid those decisions might have been, they couldn't barge in now and make him feel like less of a man. Dean needed this. He needed to feel whole; he needed to feel useful. Sam recognized that, same as Bobby - maybe he didn't want to admit it out loud, but he knew it to be the truth. So he would wait. He'd stand back, three hundred feet from his brother, and follow him, and protect him from afar. He'd wait until Dean needed him - if he needed him - before he charged in to help. And if Dean managed to take care of this thing all on his own, he and Bobby would hightail it back to the trailhead and be there to meet his brother as he emerged, triumphant, and pretend that they were never watching his every last move; pretend that they were never only a few hundred feet from saving his ass the whole time. Everything in him had Sam hoping that Dean got to be that triumphant, but something else told him not to hold his breath. He'd just have to wait and see.

Sam's heart broke as he watched Dean. He could almost see the gears turning in the older man's head as he made up his mind whether or not to continue on his search. And then his eyes widened and he gasped, seeing what he could only hope Dean would look up and see too. He cocked his gun and braced himself from the privacy of his hiding spot. Beside him, Bobby did the same, and the two hunter's waited with baited breath for Dean to see the huge snake, poised and ready to strike mere inches from where Dean sat against the tree trunk.

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It was the hiss that alerted Dean first, and he froze, breath and heart both stopping in one single instant. His senses switched to high alert, telling him in an instant that the hissing sound was coming from something close by, telling him it was a snake. But it's not just any snake; no, that would be too easy. Without even turning around he knew that the spirit they hunted had sensed his presence in the woods, discovered its very livelihood to be in danger, and came looking for the hunter before the hunter found it.

With a stealth and invisibility that very few hunters possess, Dean lowered his hand down to where his weapon lay at his feet. He moved slowly, so slowly in fact, that it might not even seem like he was moving at all. An eternity passed by before he sensed the feel of his shotgun beneath his fingers and then more time passed as he collected the weapon in his hand, all the while keeping his back and head stiff, revealing nothing to the spirit behind him.

He readied himself, knowing he would only have one chance, figuring the poison in the spirit snakes mouth was of the deadly variety. Dean counted to three in his head, slowly, and then decided he wasn't quite ready and counted out another three. Fear engulfed him; the knowledge that he no longer knew his body and what it was capable of making it difficult to instill trust in his abilities. He questioned if the leg would hold him, wondered if it would respond appropriately or if it would fail him when his life depended on it the most. But when all was said and done, Dean realized that he had no choice but to trust the limb that must become a part of him if he was to survive. There was no option but to go down with a fight, and sitting like a scared little kitten, making no effort to move, was just unacceptable.

The third three count had him on his feet, spinning around, and facing the snake before the spirit could react. It finally lunged, just as Dean's shotgun fired out a round of consecrated iron. He watched in disbelieving horror as the snake continued its decent toward him, teeth attempting to make contact in the tough carbon fiber of the prosthesis, before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

For the second time in less than an hour Dean sank to the ground, panting heavily as he leaned up against the tree trunk for support. This time he felt justified in the reaction, having just come within an inch of losing his life. He looked down at his leg, at the jeans material that lay heavy and baggy around the two inch diameter of prosthetic leg underneath. Something shiny and ivory in color protruded from a point about mid-calf and he reached down tentatively to retrieve whatever was lodged inside.

Shaky fingers came back with what could only be a fang, and as he studied it longer Dean could see the tiny, pinpoint hole at the tip that still leaked poison despite it's extraction from the spirit's mouth. Dean dropped it hastily, as though it burned to touch it, and pulled the pants up to inspect the damage underneath. He held his breath, fearful that somehow the fang had managed to pierce skin, but his inspection revealed only a thin line of moisture running down the side of the prosthesis where the poison had landed in a benign spray.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Dean patted the carbon contraption that had just saved his life, feeling oddly grateful for it's presence right then. He resolved himself to the realization that he would be in serious trouble if he still possessed a real leg where the snake had just bitten him. At that point in time real skin and real blood would have equaled real dead.

Dean gave a bitter laugh as he pulled himself to his feet, no longer seeing the prosthetic limb as the enemy, but rather as a potential ally, quickly proving its worth to the haggard hunter. Not that he was eager to send every baddie he might cross in the future right for the fake leg, but it didn't hurt to have some sort of superpower. That could be his - something for their prey to go after that wouldn't end up in pain or bleeding all over the place. He supposed he could live with the daily insecurities if it meant saving his life on a hunt. The thing had already proven its usefulness twice now in one day - first at the stream, and now with the spirit - and Dean was beginning to feel more and more amenable to its presence as the day wore on.

Now if the remaining part of his real leg would only hold up long enough for him to finish the search and get rid of the spirit once and for all, things would be a-okay. Dean tested the leg, taking a hesitant step and finding the residual limb to be sore but still capable of bearing weight, and gathered the rest of his gear to continue on with the search. The spirit making itself known had made Dean all the more determined to find the final pouch and burn the thing before any more people died in its wake.

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Sam and Bobby had watched with baited breath, fingers resting tensely on the trigger's of their rifles, as Dean discovered his new companion behind him. Multiple times, Sam had been certain that the thing was about to spring and he admired Dean's fortitude and calm resolve in not knowing exactly where the snake was. He could barely make out the movement, but knew Dean was ever so slowly reaching down for the weapon at his feet because that was the way they had been trained. _Move so your enemy doesn't see you move, breath so your enemy doesn't hear you breath. _It was the way of the Winchester men, and in that minute Sam was grateful for their father's stern and demanding training.

He'd come close to screaming when Dean spun, watching in slow motion as Dean fired and the snake lunged at the same time, and only Bobby's quick motions to clamp his hand firmly over Sam's mouth had succeeded in retaining their hidden position. For a long, breath stealing minute Sam had been certain that the snake had bitten Dean as he watched his brother sink bonelessly to the ground, back scraping against the rough bark of a tree. Bobby had maintained his fierce grip around Sam's mouth, wrapping another arm around Sam's own arms and chest to keep the boy still.

"Wait!" the gruff hunter hissed in Sam's ear as he turned the boy's head around to face Dean once again. They watched nervously, ready to spring to the rescue if need be, and both released relieved breaths when Dean pulled the fang from his jeans and revealed the location on the prosthesis where it hadn't been able to penetrate. Sam allowed himself a minute to feel silly at his anxiety, and another to be grateful for Dean's good fortune, and then brought himself back around to the matter at hand. He watched Dean test his leg, and knew it wasn't to turn around and head back home. His brother had made up his mind to continue seeking out the spirit and within seconds they were on the move again.

It had been easy to come upon Dean when he had been so entangled in his own despair. But now the older Winchester was on high alert, his sharply honed hearing tipping him off to every rustle of leaves and every snap of twigs. That, coupled with the fact that Sam and Bobby also needed to be on the lookout for a visit from the spirit, made following Dean through the forest that much harder.

It seemed to play out like a game. They would follow for a few feet, confident in their stealth movements and distance that Dean didn't know they were there. And then Dean would turn suddenly, totally unannounced, and the two men were forced to run for tree cover, cowering in the shadows and beneath the bushes in fear that they might not have moved fast enough. Dean seemed satisfied that he was safe each time he returned back to his forward momentum, but the deepening hunch to his shoulders and the uneasy limping gait told Sam that Dean was becoming more and more suspicious the more distance they covered.

Their little game went on for another hour before Dean came to edge of the square marked on the map, the area where Sam believed to contain the pouch. The two followers saw Dean slow down, watched him sit to study the map and rest his leg, and then began to follow his calculated movements over the ground as he began his search for the pouch. Sam and Bobby spread out, taking on their own search on the outskirts of where Dean walked. If either one of the two found the pouch first there would be hell to pay in explaining their presence, but it was too reckless of them not to be carrying out their own search. Dean's feelings were important, but they meant nothing if he ended up dead first.

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There hadn't been as much time as Dean had hoped to have to consider his game plan. Once he'd taken the spill, he'd found his eyes to be more attentive to the ground in search of additional road hazards, and when the spirit had shown itself, Dean realized he needed to keep his ears open as well. Honing those senses to their maximum acuity left very little room in his mind to be using up on thoughts of where to look or how. But he still had a reasonable idea of what to start with, had a vague understanding of the location of the perfect square and the line he needed to follow to complete it.

He moved forward, a step at a time, using his good leg to brace himself while moving the prosthesis back and forth in an arc to scan beneath the underbrush. He tried to follow the footpath, assuming it to be approximately the same as it had been hundreds of years before. Many of the trees that lined the trail were old enough to have been saplings when the pouch was originally planted and, as such, encouraged the likelihood of the trail being in a similar placement.

There was no sound logic to explain his reasons for believing the pouch to be just to one side of the other of the trail. Dean only had a feeling about it; but he had learned long ago to trust his gut. It was almost as trustworthy as Dam's freaky visions and the dull ache he'd started to notice in his leg just before it rained. And besides, it was the only thing he had to go on. In this vast forest with no possible way to go back in time and see where the pouch was buried, he had to believe it would be somewhere close; somewhere logical.

Dean stopped and turned every few feet, unable to shake the nagging sensation that he was being followed. His hand remained tense on the barrel of the shotgun, ready to aim and fire at a seconds notice. He was unwilling to be caught unawares yet again. But each time he spun he found nothing; only the trees swaying gently in the soft breeze, small birds chirping out a song, little wood nymphs scurrying through the underbrush. There was nothing there to be nervous about. So why were the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention, alerting him to the presence of someone or something else?

He finally chalked it up to nerves, realizing the presence of the snake spirit had come close to unraveling his steely resolve in light of his already shot nerves. Normally, Dean wouldn't have been so jumpy, and he couldn't help feeling like a scared little girl at the moment. But he couldn't help himself; the leg still made him feel nervous despite the two recent revelations, and that nervousness had been steadily forcing him to question his sanity. That had to be it. It had to explain his jumpy nerves.

He half expected to find Sam or Bobby behind him every time he turned around, and he supposed that had something to do with his jumpy nerves as well. Dean knew he was in trouble, and he cringed to think of the barrage of accusations and insults that awaited him when he finally did meet up with the threesome that had most certainly followed him out here. He figured he'd better make this hunt mean something, because Sam would almost certainly be keeping him under lock and key from now on.

The farther he went without sign of Sam and Bobby the more he began to wonder what exactly they had up their sleeves. Dean knew they'd had a long ways to go to catch up to him, but he knew the power Sam had when he put his mind to things. There was no possible way his baby brother hadn't managed to cover the distance to the park by now, and he was honestly surprised that he hadn't heard the ominous 'Dean Winchester, you've got _so_ much explaining to do,' by now. Something was up; he just didn't know what.

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Sam and Bobby were truly getting a workout, both mental and physical, in their constant frenzy to disappear behind trees and bushes each and every time Dean spun around. The fact that the older Winchester hadn't yet caught onto their little game completely mystified Sam to the point that he was now waiting for Dean to finally spin and shout 'Enough already! Quit following me."

But their strange version of hide and seek continued early into the afternoon, broken up only by the search for the final pouch. Sam held his breath when, just after noon, he saw Dean's shoulders rise stiffly, the way they always did when he'd discovered something big. And then he crouched down quickly, knees hitting the ground harshly as he pawed at the underbrush in a frantic, desperate motion. Sam didn't have to be close to know Dean had finally found what they sought, and a smile grew into a beaming grin and he found himself silently clapping his hands together in encouragement.

So wrapped up were the three men in the victory, despite their inability to celebrate together, that none of them noticed the shadow that fell across Dean's face as he finally unearthed the aged leather pouch, bringing it into the sunlight to inspect it before performing the final necessary salt and burn. There was a loud squawk mere seconds before the hawk swooped down on Dean, tearing into his left shoulder with its long, sharp talons before hooking the same claws into the leather and flying off with the ancient pouch.

"Dean!" Sam screamed, no longer able to maintain his hidden position as he saw his brother grab his shoulder and fall to the ground in agony, blood splurting through his fingers from the three deep slashes left behind from the talons. He took off running, feet stumbling over fallen branches and upturned stones as he raced toward his brother.

From somewhere off to his right, Sam saw a flash of blue jean material as Bobby set his sights on the high flying spirit, hoping to come even close to spying where the pouch might end up. Their only hope was the knowledge that it couldn't leave the general vicinity or it would begin to lose its power by default. That didn't mean the hawk didn't have a plethora of possibilities to discard the pouch, and all three hunters were determined to end this thing today.

Sam landed on his knees, sliding in the mud as he came to a stop beside Dean, his hand immediately going to his brother's shoulder in a panicked attempt to staunch the fast flow of blood.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean grit out through clenched teeth. He flashed his little brother his most innocent smile, hoping to at least postpone the lecture for after they finished this spirit once and for all. "I was wondering when you'd show."

Sure, Sam was angry, but he was far from stupid. Not like his brother, anyway. He took Dean's greeting in stride, not wanting to get into anything right now anymore than his brother did. Instead, he focused on the wound, dropping his pack to the ground and rooting through it with one hand while the other continued to put pressure on Dean's shoulder, pushing the older man to the ground in the process.

Pulling out the first aid kit victoriously, Sam pried open the box and grabbed the flask of holy water and bleach solution they carried in place of antiseptic. In their line of work, demonic 'bacteria' was far more of a concern than actual bacteria. Besides, peroxide was one of the worst possible things you could put on a wound anyway, what with the whole eating away at live tissue as it cleansed the dirt thing. He splashed the contents of the flask across Dean's shoulder, catching the drips with a gauze cloth and wiping away the majority of the blood.

Dean hissed against the pain, but remained still as he let Sam do his work. Another square of gauze replaced the initial blood-soaked one and Sam held it tight to keep the blood flow from starting again as he grabbed a roll of surgical wrap and began wrapping it super tight around Dean's shoulder and chest, ensuring it wasn't going anywhere before sitting back on his haunches and eyeing Dean sternly.

"It'll need stitches, but that should hold for now. Just don't do too much with that arm or you'll start bleeding again."

Dean nodded solemnly, already cursing himself for letting the spirit get the drop on him. "I guess it's a good thing you two showed up when you did," he sighed with a half smile, levering himself back up off the ground. Sam jumped forward, dropping the supplies he'd been in the process of repacking into the first aid kit, and offering Dean additional support to stand. To his surprise, Dean didn't shrug him off until after he was standing steadily on his feet. As a reward, Sam let go of his own volition and returned to their supplies as though he had never stopped to help Dean in the first place.

"I guess it is," Sam agreed, figuring he would take his good fortune as it came. If Dean couldn't figure out on his own that they'd been following him for well over three hours, he never needed to know. "You okay now?"

The older Winchester nodded again, a little less certainly, but with enough conviction to keep Sam off his back. "Just a little embarrassed is all," he admitted. "I should have seen that coming. He's already been around once."

Sam feigned surprise. "He has?"

"Yeah. As a snake. Little bastard tried to take a bite out of me, but all he got was the prosthetic."

"So you're okay then?" Sam demanded.

"Just a little shook up is all. No big deal."

A quick once over confirmed for Sam what Dean had told him, and then the brothers found themselves both looking toward where Bobby was panting his way back to their location.

"So you boys want to good news or the bad news first?" the older hunter asked through gasps of air. He nodded hello to Dean as though it were perfectly normal to be meeting up for the first time in the middle of the Canadian Wilderness and then hunched over, hands on knees to quell his unsteady breathing.

Dean cocked an eyebrow as Sam crossed his arms against his chest, shifting his weight to the other foot. "Give us the good first," Dean requested, although he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear either right now. He had a feeling even the good wouldn't be good.

There was a fallen tree about five feet from where the brother's stood, and Bobby crossed the distance to where it lay, dropping heavily onto the large log before he looked back to make his announcement. "Well, the good news is that I know where that damn hawk took the pouch. The bad news, is that it's about a hundred feet up a big maple tree. Looks like we're gonna have to climb, boys."


	37. Chapter 37

**_Alright, here we go. Thanks so much for all the wonderful comments and reviews. Please keep them coming - they fuel the fire! Hope you enjoy this chapter, and hopefully the outcome will be to your liking...or at least the outcome up until next chapter. Sorry, it's another cliff-hanger. It's not that I fully intend to keep doing this, it just makes a good stopping place. To keep going means another 6 or 7 pages, and that means a longer wait for all of you guys. You all rock. Thanks for all you patience! Enjoy..._**

Time dragged on as Sam and Dean stared at Bobby as though he had just grown a second head. Sam's mouth gaped open, the jaw moving up and down on its hinges as he tried to decide whether to laugh or cry. And Dean just seemed to shut down completely. It was uncanny just how much bad luck had befallen them just on this one little hunt. He decided they had to have made up for breaking all those mirrors from the Bloody Mary case all those months back. Nobody deserved to have this long a string of bad luck - wasn't it their turn for some good yet?

"It's in a tree," Sam finally said, more a statement than a question, but he looked to Bobby for confirmation nonetheless. "As in, up there, in the air, _way_ beyond out of our reach, in a tree."

Bobby nodded, cringing a bit as he fully soaked up the implications of that particular predicament.

Sam sighed, running his hand through his tangled mop of dark hair and looked at Dean who, up till now, hadn't done much more than remain frozen in place, cradling his wounded shoulder as though it were a precious package.

"Well that just sucks," Sam finally breathed out.

Finally springing to life, Dean rolled his eyes. "And the prize for understatement of the year goes to..."

Choosing to ignore him, Sam instead looked back to Bobby as he bent to collect his pack. "Well, I guess we better get moving. Where did it land?"

Having gotten his breathing back under control, the older hunter dragged himself to his feet and nodded in the direction he'd just come. "It's about five hundred yards that-a-way." He paused, waiting to be sure the two boys were prepared to follow him before trudging off.

By now, all three knew to be cautious of the spirit and they were all on high alert, weapons cocked and ready to be fired at the earliest sign of trouble. None were willing to be caught off guard again. But the spirit didn't seem to be too concerned with their whereabouts now that it had managed to remove the pouch from their immediate grasp. If they had to venture a guess, it would seem likely that the spirit was now sitting back and toying with them, just waiting to see how far they would go to get rid of it.

Several minutes later, Bobby came to an abrupt halt in front of a large Spruce tree. With one hand he shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun and pointed with the other towards the confiscated loot. The small leather pouch was barely noticeable through the dense covering of needles and the boys had to strain to find the location Bobby was pointing to.

It hung on the top of a branch, a couple hundred feet out of reach, taunting them and mocking their short comings. The spirit hawk was nowhere in sight, but all three hunters knew that meant nothing. It would likely return only when it began to feel threatened again; probably about the time Sam was close to what they sought, when falling would almost certainly mean death.

Three sets of eyes stared ominously up at the desired pouch, some two hundred feet above them in the branches of what had to be one of the tallest and oldest trees in the forest. The trunk was thick and gnarled and devoid of branches for the first twenty-five or so feet, making the impending climb all that more daunting.

"We could just burn the whole damn tree down," Dean suggested, only half joking. But they all knew that couldn't be the answer. The goal was to save the forest and all the nature lovers that enjoyed its beauty and simplicity, not destroy it all. Lighting up a tree of that height would surely set the entire forest on fire.

Sam turned to offer his brother a smile at the attempted joke, but his mouth immediately turned down at the edges as he took in the expression of despair and hopelessness that had once again found its way to Dean's face. He absolutely hated this; absolutely despised the ups and downs that Dean continued to experience. And he knew, without a doubt, the thoughts that crossed his older brother's mind to put the cloud over his face. It didn't matter how much he had accomplished just coming out here by himself, fighting off the spirit snake, locating the pouch initially; none of that mattered right now as Dean looked up into the face of a challenge he stood no chance at besting. He'd come a long way, but there was no way, even without the shoulder injury, that he could climb the tree.

"So I guess you're gonna have to go up there," Dean stated flatly, downcast eyes looking down to the ground instead of at Sam.

Sam shrugged nonchalantly, as though the mighty spruce tree in front of him were nothing more than a mere shrub, and the fact that they lacked any rope or proper climbing equipment was only a minor setback. "With your shoulder the way it is, man..." Sam apologized, letting the sentence hang where it stood, refusing to say more. He knew Dean understood; it wasn't right to rub it in.

"You got any ideas on how you're going to do this?" Bobby broke in, hands on his hips as he too stared up the height of the tree in mystified curiosity. It was a near impossible challenge, but there was no other option.

Sam issued a dry chuckle. "One hand at a time?" He circled the tree slowly, studying the potential handholds it offered. He could play this off with humor, but there was no mistaking the underlying nervousness. One false move, one wrong step, and he wasn't walking out of this forest.

Seeing his brother's anxiety, Dean stepped up to the plate. Something about seeing Sammy in distress brought out the guardian in the elder Winchester, and he quickly pushed his concerns aside to take care of his little brother. His responsibility. There was more than one way to be a part of this challenge, and he was determined to protect Sam with everything he had.

Joining Sam in his circle of the tree, Dean began calculating the climb. "You're gonna want to start there," he started, pointing to a thick knot about three feet from the ground that provide the best access to additional footholds. "And from that point, go there, there, and then there." His suggestions would get Sam about ten feet off the ground. From there, more knots and short branch holds began to sprout, although nothing significant was prevalent for another fifteen feet and Sam eyed Dean nervously.

"You really think this is going to work?"

"It has to. We don't have another option."

"Right. You're absolutely right. No other choice."

Their gazes locked, the single look saying more than any words could say. Fear. Love. Understanding.

But Sam couldn't leave it just at a look, and he backed away a step as he broke the connection. "Dean, man, about yesterday..." _God was it only yesterday that Dean had stormed off? It felt like a lifetime ago. _

Dean shook his head, effectively ending the dreaded chick-flick moment before it began. "Save it for when you're safely out of that tree, Sam. It'll give you something to focus on."

Sam felt something sharp pull at his heart when Dean refused him the conversation he wanted; a thought, a concern, a fact. He knew that if they didn't have this talk now they never would, just as he knew not saying anything would give him a reason to fight, to hold on. There was no way he would leave his feeings unsaid. Not when Dean was hurting so bad on the outside.

But he consented to Dean's request, shutting his mouth and putting his thoughts and concerns out of his mind. He would save it for later, for the drive home, perhaps, and probably never speak a word of what he wanted to say.

"...to have to take some weapons up with you."

"Huh?" Sam shook his head to clear his thoughts and looked at his brother with a hint of confusion. Just how long had Dean been talking to him before he noticed.

Dean sighed, noticeably irritated. "Sammy, you've got to listen to us. You need to pay attention. Seriously! This is extremely important."

The younger blinked and focused hard on his brother. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking. Please continue."

"Like I was saying, it's going to add extra weight, but you're going to have to carry some weapons with you. The thing will no doubt come after you when you're close. You've got to have protection."

Sam nodded, and looked to Bobby, watching him root through their packs for the best weapons to use. He emerged first with a small handgun, shoving it firmly at Sam. The young hunter took it and secured it in the waistband of his pants.

"It's not ideal for range," Bobby lamented of his choice, but I doubt you'll be able to carry a rifle all the way up that tree.

A wan smile was the only response Sam provided as he waited for Bobby to secure the other items he was to take up the tree with him. Salt, holy water, silver knife. Everything was tucked away safely in pockets and waistbands, as secure as they were going to be for such a climb. And then he saw Bobby reach for his own waistband, hastily fumbling with his belt.

"You gonna do a strip tease for us there, Bobby?" Dean snorted, his sarcastic personality shining through even in the direst of circumstances, and Bobby looked up in defense of his actions.

"No, I'm not gonna do a strip tease," the older man sneered, annoyed. "It's to help him climb. He can wrap the belt around the trunk of the tree and shimmy his way up and down. It should offer just a little bit more security."

It was a sound idea, and Dean gave a nod of approval at his friends impressive thinking. He never would have considered that.

And then it was time for action. The reality of the situation was that it would probably take Sam at least an hour to shimmy his way up the trunk; he would need breaks to rest his weary arms or he might manage to lose his handhold and fall on his own without ever getting a shove from the spirit they hunted. To top that off, it stood to reason that they would still have a fight on their hands with the spirit and another guaranteed four hours at least to get back out. It was one thing to race their way in under the guise of anger and determination, but there was no doubt they would end up exhausted and barely able to crawl their way back out by the end.

Inside his head, Dean's voice was screaming at him to stop this ridiculousness, to figure out another way. His instinct told him to press forward and insist upon going up the tree himself, despite the inevitability that he couldn't do it. There was no way he could climb that tree, he wasn't ready. Maybe, _maybe_, in a few months with some more practice and more time to let his leg heal he might be able to consider climbing a small tree - an apple tree perhaps - and then work his way up to greater challenges. But for now, it would do none of them any good for him to start another argument in place of action.

So Dean ignored the nagging voice, pressed beyond the worries that this was a bad idea, and approached Sam with a forced smile. "You ready for this, bro?"

Sam laughed nervously, looking up to the top of the tree for at least the hundredth time, and crossed his arms against his chest. "No. But it's got to be done. I'll be okay."

Gripping one side of Bobby's belt tight in his hand, Sam swung the length of it around the tree and grabbed onto the other side before he lost his nerve. He heard Dean come up behind him, and Bobby approached from the other side. Both men put a hand on a shoulder and squeezed reassuringly .

"You're gonna do just fine, Sammy," Dean encouraged as Bobby nodded affirmatively. "I mean, it's really nothing to get up there, ya know? Just a bit of a climb - nothing you haven't done before. Piece of cake."

Sam gave a firm nod, feigning his own confidence as easily as Dean. He appreciated his brother's assuredness in his ability, despite the ever growing fear he had that this climb was not possible, and he felt he owed it to the older man to put everything he had into completing the mission. Dean had already given so much for this hunt; he'd literally given a part of himself. And for that, Sam was willing to risk his own life.

Checking the hold of the belt, Sam jerked it several times and then began his assent. The trunk was thickest at the bottom and he had to hug tightly to the tree to maintain a hold on both sides of the belt as he searched for footholds and slowly inched the belt further up the tree. Almost immediately, he could feel the roughness of the bark as it began to scratch at his face and his bare forearms. But he persisted, ignoring the minor pains in favor of a faster climb.

It took him close to twenty minutes to make it far enough up to where he could actually reach branches of any substance, and he was close to exhaustion by that point, his arms quivering from exertion. He grabbed hold of the thick branch, clinging to it as the lifeline if was, and closed his eyes for a minute. When he finally felt rested enough to open them once again, Sam looked down to see Dean and Bobby grinning up at him eagerly. He could see relief on Dean's face, and knew his brother had most feared the initial twenty foot climb. Despite the height that accompanied the remainder of the climb, it was the lack of handholds and footholds in the beginning that had most worried his brother.

Sam waved wearily at the two men beneath him and called out. "So far so good."

"You're doing great, Sammy!" Dean hollered back. "Not much further!"

Rolling his eyes at Dean's sarcasm, Sam turned back to the task at hand and balanced himself on the limb he was on as he reached for the next. The remainder of his climb was done in what could only be described as a noisy silence. Dean and Bobby seemed to know that their voices would only succeed in distracting Sam from his concentration, and hence remained blissfully quiet. Sam only wished that the frantic beating of his heart and the noisy pounding in his ears would share the same consideration.

Every new branch, each additional foot in height, brought new anxieties. The closer he came to the pouch the more he found himself looking over his shoulder and jumping at every rustle of leaves and gust of wind, certain that it was the spirit back to finish what it started months earlier. But every nervous reaction resulted in a big fat nothing until he finally found himself just a branch away from the very limb his sought out pouch rested on.

Sam finally gave himself the opportunity to rest again, drawing up the last bit of strength he would need in order to go for the pouch. The muscles in his arms were weak and flaccid after supporting his weight for the better part of an hour, and his hands were scraped and bleeding from the constant attack the tree bark had launched against his skin. Sam's hands shook as he opened a bottle of water, dropping the cap in the process. So he downed the entire thing and sent the bottle after the cap. Picking them up would give Dean something to do beyond nervously waiting for Sam to fall from the tree.

"I can see it!" Sam bellowed to the two hunter's below him when he'd finally readied himself to go the last few feet to the loot.

"Well hurry up and get the damn thing!" Dean yelled back. His voice was distant and hollow from so far down, but Sam could still make out the inflection in his brother's voice, and he could almost see him pacing impatiently in a circle around the very tree he'd climbed.

A hint of a smile formed on Sam's face as he resigned himself to complete the retrieval mission. _Same old Dean. _

His first thought was to just shake the limb until the pouch dislodged itself and fell to the forest floor, where Dean and Bobby could salt and burn the damn thing while he struggled to get back down. But Sam soon discovered that doing so was a lesson in futility. The tree limb was far too thick from where he sat, and didn't show any signs of thinning out until he was close enough to grab the pouch anyway.

With a determined sigh, Sam began to inch himself across the limb, legs dangling free as he scooted his butt closer and closer to the end. Occasionally he would encounter a branch breaking off from the main limb, and he would have to fall to his stomach and pull himself along as he freed his feet from their obstruction. Every foot or so, Sam reached to his waistband to check the location of his gun, needing the certainty that it was ready and waiting for him in the event of danger.

But when the spirit hawk returned it came with such a silence and swiftness that Sam never saw it coming. He'd been so close; his fingers in the process of wrapping themselves around the leather bag, when he felt the rush of wind pass his ear just as a searing pain invaded his senses, setting his right forearm on fire.

Instinct had him reaching out with the left hand to grab at the bleeding appendage, leaving him unsecured on the branch. The force of the attack had knocked him off balance, and he teetered dangerously for a few seconds - just long enough to recognize impending doom - before his balance gave way and he found himself plummeting downward.

Sam screamed. The sound of his own voice, so shrill and so frightened, tore at his eardrums as he met branch after branch on his way down. He was certain this was it; this was how he would die. He felt every branch as he careened back to the earth, every crash from one level to the next jarring his body and sending new waves of pain across every nerve ending in his torso, his legs, his arms. Places he didn't even know could feel pain were suddenly alight with agonizing energy, getting worse and worse the farther he fell.

And then he stopped. He just... quit falling. In the same instant of time it had taken to lose his balance and topple off the tree limb that had been his only support, Sam now came to rest on a second branch, quite a ways down from the first one. He lay on his back, cradled by the girth of the limb that had claimed him, and focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. It hurt so bad; oh, god how his lungs burned and his head swam and everything else just throbbed, almost too numb to register any pain anymore.

From somewhere below him, Sam could hear voices. Someone calling his name; screaming it. He knew it was Dean, not because he could discern tone or volume or pitch, but because he knew instinctively that only Dean could put that much emotion into the one word.

"Sammmmmmeeeeeee!" Dean screamed, over and over again. He wanted desperately to return the call; wanted to reassure Dean that he was here, he was alive. But he couldn't get his voice to work. His throat had gone into convulsions as he tried to reply, and his tongue seemed to have swollen up inside his mouth, leaving no room for movement. The best he could utter was a garbled "Deghhn," that he knew had in no way made it down to his brother's hearing.

In another instant, Dean stopped screaming Sam's name, and the hollow echo of voices turned into determined desperation.

xxxxxxxxxx

"I'm going up after him!" Dean announced, one hand already on the tree as he assessed his climb. Sam had fallen most of the way down, and now rested only five or six feet higher than the lowest level of branches. He wasn't moving, wasn't making a sound, and Dean was terrified.

Bobby grabbed his arm and spun him around. "You can't do it. I'll go." the older man stated matter-of-factly. His harsh eyes bored into Dean, unwavering, though saying such a thing had just about killed him. The last thing he wanted was to break Dean's spirit anymore than it already was. But Sam was hurt, maybe dying, and they couldn't waste time testing the waters to see how acute Dean's climbing skills were with only one real leg.

"Like hell I can't," Dean glowered back, pissed as hell and unwilling to get into a fight right now. Jerking his arm out of Bobby's grasp, Dean returned to the tree, once again reaching for handholds. He was going up there and that was all there was too it. "He's my brother. I'll do what I have to do."

"You can't risk it, Dean," Bobby insisted, grabbing at the middle Winchester once again. His unspoken words fueled the fire already raging inside Dean, making him more determined than ever to go after Sam. _You're too much of a liability. You'll just get yourself hurt in the process. Sam can't have that right now. _

xxxxxxxxxx

From up in the tree, Sam heard the exchange taking place, but his foggy mind was having a difficult time fully comprehending the words being said. He knew they were arguing, probably about him, and he had to put a stop to it. If he could just...turn over...just get onto his stomach, maybe he could make it the rest of the way to the ground without help. They wouldn't have to fight anymore.

He started to move, forcing his heavy right arm across his chest as spears of pain ignited once again across the limb. He stared, dumbstruck, at the bloody appendage and forced his eyes to focus, noticing only then the pouch still locked in a death grip in his hand. The smile that created ended up more as a grimace, but the intentions were there. He'd done it. He'd gotten the pouch. This could all be ended right now.

Knowing there was nothing he could do about the pouch from where he lay, Sam pried his fingers from the mouth of the bag and let loose. A few seconds later he heard the unmistakable thud as it hit the ground and then Bobby's cry of "What the hell?" floated up to his ears once more before Sam's mind gave way to unconsciousness.

xxxxxxxxxx

Dean and Bobby both stopped arguing as the pouch came hurtling to the earth, landing directly between their feet. Four eyes turned on the illusive bag, the missing link to ending this nightmare once and for all, before Bobby finally crouched down and retrieved it.

"We need to burn this _now_, before the spirit returns for it again." Bobby's insistence left no room for argument, and Dean quickly nodded in agreement.

They both looked up to where Sam still lay, noticing the change in position where his arm now crossed his chest instead of hanging limply in the air. "You take care of the bag. I've got to get to him before he rolls off." Dean's concern for his brother was palpable, and Bobby finally assented. As much as he didn't like the plan, and really thought their roles would be better reversed, he recognized the time danger another argument would produce. Looking into Dean's eyes, the older hunter was reassured that Dean would figure something out. There was no way he was letting his little brother down.

Working in double time, the two lucid hunter's set about their tasks. Dean's heart beat fast as he sought out the same handholds Sam had used earlier, using his own belt in the same manner Bobby's had provided Sam. He ignored the sharp twinges in his shoulder, and didn't look to see how much blood he was losing from the strain. It didn't matter. Only Sam mattered. He'd made it about a third of the distance to Sam when a loud crack echoed throughout the forest. Dean looked down in time to see Bobby squaring off against the spirit hawk, gun drawn and ready to fire again if the thing came at him again.

"Not this time, you son of a bitch!" Bobby growled angrily, his hand clutching tightly to the leather pouch. The bottle of lighter fluid and a canister of salt both lay upturned on the forest floor. The hawk flew at Bobby again and another gunshot pierced the air, abruptly followed by a blood curdling shriek.


	38. Chapter 38

**_Alright, so I haven't had an opportunity to replyto any of you in person this time, and I probably won't for this chapter. I've literally got ten minutes of free time to post this and then I've got to head out again, and I figured between getting a reply back or having a new chapter to read you would all want the chapter. So I'm just going to leave a generalized THANK YOU to all of you who took the time to read and review this last chapter. There's no better reward for a fledgling author than to hear how much her work affects people - whether good or bad. I'm so appreciative for all of your support throughout this story. I think there will only be one chapter after this one, so we're very near the end. However, I will pose this question for the lot of you...would you be interested in a sequal at some time? I absolutely have to return to 'Stroke of Bad Luck' after this one, but I'd be open to following Dean's journey with his prosthesis if there is enough interest out there. Let me know what you think. And on with the story..._**

The unnatural sound of the dying spirit hawks scream sent shivers down Dean's spine as he turned to see where the sound had come from. Bobby still held his smoking gun, arms straight and tense, as though he wasn't sure if the thing might reappear if he eased his stance. In that minute, Dean knew the spirit was losing momentum. It had channeled just about every predator that walked the forest, exhausting his possibilities. And if it hadn't been clear before, the hunters were now certain that the spirit couldn't return to a form once that form had been killed. At this point, that didn't leave it many options.

Dean let out a breath of relief, glad to have another form taken care of. The hawk had been downright scary the way it managed to swoop in undetected. He and Sam had both fallen victim to its mighty talons without any warning, and he was not eager to come face to face with it again. Sammy…

With that out of the way, Dean amped up his pace, scrambling up the tree with no regard to his own situation. He ignored the few times his new foot slipped from the knots on the trunk, fervently reminding himself that Sam, too, had slipped. Although it was definitely more of a necessity to watch the foot, and he focused vigilant eyes on where he placed the foot and how he placed it, knowing he couldn't risk plummeting from the tree himself.

"Sammy! Sammy, I'm coming!" Dean shouted to his brother, hoping to elicit some kind of a response from the younger Winchester. But Sam remained motionless and unresponsive on the tree branch he'd landed on. Dean didn't know whether to be frightened or glad for that fact, knowing that either option was dangerous. An unresponsive Sam threatened of head trauma or impending death, two things Dean didn't want to consider at the moment. But if Sam were awake and disoriented, he might end up rolling right off the limb he lay on.

It occurred to Dean that, if Sam was still alive, hitting several tree limbs on the way down may very well have saved his life by decreasing the speed to which he was falling. Freefalling the last twenty some feet would almost certainly have killed him.

Dean found it therapeutic to talk to Sam on his way up, despite the fact that Sam wasn't answering. Just having a purpose, considering that Sam might be able to hear him, was enough to keep him talking to his baby brother. "Just hang on there, Sammy, I'm coming for ya!" Dean shouted as he scaled another few feet of trunk, clinging tightly to the broken remainder of a branch that had once stuck out from there.

"Don't give up on me now, I'll be there in just a second. I promise. I'll be there soon. I'm almost there." He continued his play-by-play all the way up to where the limbs became prominent, and then focused his attention on hefting himself onto the bottom limb before continuing his one-sided conversation.

From where he stood, Dean could now make out Sam's features perfectly, and he couldn't help the intake of breath that formed at the sight. Sam's exposed face and arms were mottled in quickly developing bruises, trumped only by the smattering of blood that flowed through several deep cuts and gashes. His eyes were closed, clenched tightly in pain despite his unconscious oblivion, and the one arm he'd used to drop the pouch minutes earlier now gripped tightly to his chest. Dean diagnosed broken ribs without even lifting the shirt, unwilling to see what would very likely be a Picasso of bruises covering his torso and remaining body.

Sam's left arm and both legs dangled limply in the air, the wrist on his arm bent at an odd angle and swollen already to twice its size. The baggy jeans he wore hid any visible injuries to his legs, and Dean didn't want to risk rolling him off the limb to inspect them for damage. First, he had to wake Sam up.

He climbed the rest of the way, seating himself on the same branch Sam currently lay sprawled out on, and balanced himself. It was near impossible finding a position that wouldn't aggravate any of Sam's extensive injuries while still allowing him access to his little brother's face, but Dean somehow managed.

"Hey. Sammy, hey hey," Dean called out softly, patting his brother's cheek to rouse him. He had to repeat the pattern several times before Sam's eyes began to flutter, blinking over and over again as the young hunter tried to bring Dean's face into focus.

"Dean! How's it coming?" Bobby screamed up the tree, choosing that moment to call up and check on Dean's progress and as he looked up, Sam's eyes fluttered shut again, unable to latch onto what they sought.

"He's just coming to," Dean called back, noticing Sam's wince as the volume of his voice aggravated what was certain to be one hell of a killer headache.

"Hey, man. Hey, I'm sorry. No more yelling," Dean soothed in a much softer voice, patting Sam on the cheek once more to get his attention.

Sam forced his eyes open again, bringing them back into focus and this time locking them onto Dean's worried gaze. "Did I get it?" Sam asked in an almost inaudible whisper, swallowing convulsively against the desert that had suddenly chosen to take up residence in his mouth.

Dean had to laugh. "You fall out of a tree and all you can think about is whether or not you got the pouch?"

"Kinda…important," Sam replied, the words forced.

"Yeah, little brother, you got it. Bobby's taking care of burning it as we speak." Dean looked back down to the ground and watched as Bobby collected the scattered equipment. Salt had spilled everywhere, causing the older hunter to have to pick it up with his bare hands. But instead of shoving it back into the container, he'd waited until he had the pouch secure in as un-burnable a spot possible, on the top of a large, flat boulder several feet away, and was now carrying handfuls of a salt and debris mixture and dumping it on top of the leather bag. Dean only hoped enough lighter fluid remained to douse the damn thing and give it a proper cremation. "We've got to focus on you now," Dean continued, already assessing the situation and determining it to be really and truly FUBAR. "Somehow we have to get you down this tree, and I don't have any rope."

Sam looked dazedly at Dean, a hint of a lazy smile playing across his pained features. The action did nothing to alleviate Dean's concerns as he realized Sam wouldn't be much help in the brainstorming. "You'll keep me safe," Sam confirmed through slurred words. "You always do."

Nodding his confirmation, Dean patted Sam on the shoulder and issued his own nervous smile back. "You know it, little brother. Just give me a second to think."

He pushed himself into a sit, straddling the thick limb as he weighed his options carefully. One thing was for certain; he would be waiting until Bobby had burned the stupid pouch and all evidence of the spirit was gone before he tried to move Sam. With any luck, Bobby could figure out a way to rig up some rope or something to get Sam down with. Hell, maybe even some sort of a trampoline type rescue mat. That would be cool.

Except just as Dean started thinking everything would work out from here on out, that it was a downhill slide to the finish, the entire floor dropped out from under him. Trying to alternate his attention between keeping Sam alert and watching for Bobby to finish, Dean caught a glimpse of something moving out of the corner of his eye. He immediately reached for his gun, sliding it from his waistband and fitting it into the palm of his hand before spinning in the direction of the shadow he'd seen. He couldn't possibly imagine what more the spirit could have in store for them, couldn't think of another beast it could possibly channel. That left it only one option, and as his eyes scanned the perimeter for the predator he finally realized what was to come. A small cluster of feathers tipped Dean off to the spirit in its human form - the form of the hunter it had been created to avenge - just as he watched an arrow go slicing through the air.

"Bobbeeee!"

Dean fired a shot. Two. Three. Each one barely missing the elusive spirit. The Algonquin Indian was quick, lithe, obviously familiar with evading capture while still pulling off his own attack. In an instant, the spirit was gone and Dean turned his attention back to the welfare of his companions. Sam was fine for the time being, out of the crossfire at least. But Bobby was now on the ground, writhing around in agony and cursing up a storm as he fought with the ancient arrow that had pierced his upper thigh.

"Wha's goin on, Dean?" Sam mumbled groggily from the tree limb, trying to roll himself enough to see what the commotion was all about.

"Don't move, Sam." Reaching out a hand, Dean set it on Sam's chest and pressed firmly enough to let the injured hunter know his purpose was to stay put. Internally, Dean felt like he was moving his mind. This spirit had caused more bloodshed than anything else they had encountered. Twice he'd come after it, and both times it had gotten the best of him and his entourage. He'd literally invested a part of himself into this damn thing, and there was no way in hell he was going home a failure again. This was it; him or the spirit.

But somehow he had to get Sam down from the tree, too. Dean knew he needed to be on the ground to face off with his foe, but there was no way he was leaving Sam alone in the tree. He looked back at his brother, sucking in a deep, shuddering breath.

"Sam, how are your legs? Do you think they can support you?"

He watched as Sam slowly processed the question and even more slowly began to move his legs, struggling to lift them and bend them as he explored their capabilities. An eternity passed before Sam finally nodded his head, uncertainty clear in his expression, although it was faintly masked by his determination to please Dean.

"I– I think so."

Dean nodded, thinking quickly as he reached out to help Sam sit up. His brother swayed dangerously as he came to a vertical position, and it was all Dean could do to keep them both safely on the limb. When they were steady again, Dean knew he had to come up with a plan. Fast.

Suddenly his eyes fell to the belt Sam had managed to hold onto in his fall. He'd looped it through a couple of his own belt loops when he'd gotten to a point that he no longer needed it. The leather belt was going to save Sam.

"Okay, buddy, this is what we're gonna do," Dean began, carefully sliding around behind Sam as he spoke. "I'm going to secure this belt through my own belt loops and up under your armpits. You're going to have to help me, Sam. You've got to do some of your own climbing. But I'll do most of it. Don't worry, Sam. I'm not gonna let you fall."

The plan was not a sound one, and the holes in that logic were so huge you could drive a mac truck through them. What was to say his belt loops would hold Sam's weight. For that matter, what was to say _he_ could hold Sam's weight and still climb down a tree at the same time. He'd struggled as it was climbing _up_ the tree, what with his shoulder and his leg. And then there was the issue of Sam being strong enough to do any of his own climbing. If he fell, if he collapsed, they could both die. But it was the only plan Dean could come up with. And they were running out of time.

Sam turned trust filled eyes on his brother, nodding in agreement of the plan. "Let's do this. I'm good."

That was it. Things were in motion, and there was no backing out now.

"We're coming down, Bobby! We'll be there in a sec," Dean hollered, realizing he really hadn't even checked on the older hunter after the arrow had pierced his thigh. "You doing alright down there?"

"Peachy!" came the forced reply, just as the unmistakable sound of wood splintering resounded through the air. Bobby had just broken the shaft in half, resigned to pull the thing out of his leg. "Just get your asses down here and get rid of this damn spirit!"

Dean had to laugh at Bobby's growled out response, knowing by that, that the injury was more of an irritation to the stubborn hunter than it was an actual hindrance. Satisfied that Bobby could take care of himself for a few minutes more, Dean turned all his attention back to Sam and the climb before him.

With Sam strapped to his front like some oversized infant in a freaked out Baby Bjorn, Dean inched the two of them forward as he retrieved his own belt from his hip and tossed it around the trunk of the tree. Sam did his best to help, hands gripping lethargically to knots and branches as his feet scrambled to make purchase on the side of tree, but there was no doubt Dean controlled the mission.

He focused, mind, body, and soul, on the descent down the tree. Every foot plant was purposeful, backed by a few additional seconds to ensure stability. Every inched lowered was considered with mind-numbing intensity, the belt sliding slowly down the trunk of the tree as Dean gripped tightly to either end. At his waist, he could feel the belt loops tearing, feel his jeans pulling down, threatening to break free from a waist that had slimmed down over the past few months, and he knew the only thing keeping Sam securely with him was the minimal bit of effort Sam was exerting.

"You doing alright there, Sammy?" Dean finally asked, breaking his concentration long enough to check up on little brother when he felt him start to go lax.

Sam perked up, immediately stepping up his effort, and nodded his head. He couldn't let Dean down, and the little bit of lucidity still active in his mind reminded him that one little stumble on his part could bring the duo down. With another ten feet still left to go, it was still too dangerous a drop.

"We're almost there," reassured Dean, his soothing words snaking into Sam's mind. "Just a little longer. You can do it."

They went back to the dismount, once again eliminating all external sound or distraction from their minds. Getting down safely was just too important, and Dean could only hope that Bobby was well enough to keep the spirit occupied long enough to get them to the ground in one place.

Dean's feet hit the ground seconds before he realized they had made it, his mind was just so overwrought with the tension of this hunt and helping Sam and Bobby. He'd come out here alone, with the intention of going after the spirit by himself, yet he'd barely made it, his mind throwing him into a depressing torment of can I or can't I logic. And somewhere along the line Sam and Bobby had found him and all of a sudden he found himself frontman on a mission that was near impossible. His tired, battered body was suddenly being forced to extend beyond limits even Dean didn't think possible. The epiphany of learning he'd somehow managed the inconceivable, getting both himself and Sam off the side of the monster tree, overcame him with the speed of a raging river and he sagged against the trunk of the tree, taking Sam with him.

They sat there for close to a minute, Dean panting raggedly while a nearly unconscious Sam lay limply against his chest, until Bobby's yell broke into his reverie.

"You plan to take a nap or get up and give me a hand?"

Dean blinked, focusing on the image of the haggard hunter somehow managing to stave off the floating spirit with the butt of his gun. They'd come to an unspoken agreement, although how or why, Bobby still wasn't certain of. But somehow it had been decided that the image of the warrior's spirit was not moving, nor was it firing a second arrow from the reloaded bow, providing Bobby didn't go for the trigger of the gun. Bobby was standing, but clearly favoring his right leg as blood flowed freely from the un-bandaged wound on his thigh. The two broken halves of the very tangible phantom arrow lay several feet away, tossed aside when the older hunter had ripped them from his leg.

After quickly ensuring that Sam was secure against the base of the tree, Dean scrambled to his feet. He retrieved the gun from his waistband, ready to shoot as soon as he was able to discover what the inane game man and spirit were playing. The spirit's eyes wavered, darting back and forth between Dean and Bobby, clearly trying to determine who was the greater threat.

"How far did you get with the pouch?" Dean asked, gaze never leaving the spirit as the three maintained their standoff.

"Got the salt on it and the lighter fluid before the damn thing decided to play cupid. Gotta tell ya, man, love hurts."

Dean forced a laugh at the poor joke, grateful for Bobby's attempt at lightening the mood despite the extreme situation they all found themselves in. The only comfort he could find was that they were still far from the severity of the last time they were here. Yet that was far from comforting.

"You got matches?"

Bobby shook his head. "Not on me, no. They're scattered on the ground over to my left. You?"

"In my pack. We've got to get over there. Get that pouch lit up. It's the only way this thing'll stay gone."

"I'm not moving very fast," Bobby lamented. "I'll stay here and hold Sitting Bull's attention. Can you get the burn done?"

_No. I'm not moving any better than you, man. Hello - lost a limb here. _Yet Dean nodded, internally convincing himself that he could do this. He _had_ to do this. "I'll get it done."

He moved tediously slow, inching his way across the ground as Bobby circled with the spirit, hoping to guide its roving eyes off of what Dean intended to do. At first, the diversionary tactics seemed to be working and Dean found himself with match in hand just beyond an arms length from the boulder Bobby had arranged for the fire. But just as he went to strike the match the warrior's spirit turned on Dean, drawing back the string on his bow and letting loose with his arrow.

"Dean, look out!" Bobby screamed, causing Dean to duck just in time to miss being hit by the projectile. He could hear the arrow whoosh by his head as it sliced through the air with lightening speed.

"Keep it away from me," Dean screamed as Bobby began discharging his weapon at the specter. "I'm almost there."

He army crawled back to the boulder, glancing over his shoulder in time to see Bobby drop the clip from his gun and reload. The spirit was no where to be seen, and that did little to alleviate Dean's anxiety. "Fuck." Taking a second to ensure Sam, at least, was out of harms way, he began climbing back to his feet, using the rock to lever himself up quicker.

The warrior reappeared in his line of sight just as he struck the match, and another arrow flew at him before he had time to react. The lit match jumped from his fingers, somehow managing to find purchase on the doused pouch and setting the thing on fire just as the arrow crossed his path, grazing his already torn shoulder. He barely noticed as he raised his gun and fired.

The heat from the ignited pouch was enough to slow the spirit down and Dean's iron bullet hit its target. The warrior spirit threw its head back as the bullet tore through its mighty chest, letting out an anguished cry as the iron weakened its form. The fire started there, working its way outwards in a perfect circle until the entire spirit was ablaze with the bright orange and yellow flames. From within the blaze, the hunters could see the ferocity of the warriors eyes as he began to chant in his native tongue, the image of the bright flame reflected in his eyes. And then as quickly as the fire began, it extinguished, the spirit vanishing with it. Nothing remained of either the pouch or the spirit, and instinctually Dean knew they were finally done.

It only took a second for Dean to recover from the elation of having vanquished the spirit before he remembered Sam lying prone against the trunk of the tree they'd just descended. Turning back, Dean could see his little brother slumped painfully to one side, head hanging limply on his chest. His eyes were closed tight and his breathing was ragged, pulling in sharp spurts as he tried not to antagonize his injured body.

"Sammy, man, we got it. It's gone. How ya doin?" Dean asked urgently, crouching beside his injured brother and helping him to sit up straight, easing the pressure in his chest.

Blinking owlishly, Sam looked up at Dean and tried to focus. "I'm good," he hissed trough clenched teeth.

Dean snorted, sarcasm oozing into his voice. "Suuuuure you are. I can see that." Be began fussing over Sam, it suddenly occurring to him that he hadn't yet had an opportunity to thoroughly check his brother over. He had a vague idea where Sam was hurt, but didn't have any conclusive evidence. Twenty five feet up in the air balancing on a tree limb hardly offered the best situation for triage.

"Sammy, I've got to check you over," Dean announced apologetically.

Sam nodded, gritting his teeth in preparation of the pain he knew was about to come. Bobby appeared at his side, inconspicuously offering his hand for Sam to grip and he did so, not really caring if Dean noticed or not.

"I'll be as gentle as possible," Dean assured.

He started at the top and worked his way down, jumping back quickly at Sam's every hiss and moan, and finally faced the other two hunters with a grim face once he'd calculated everything. Sam had at least two broken ribs and a third was likely, his left wrist was broken and swelling fast, and he had a bump the size of an ostrich egg on the back of his head that made the young hunter's vision blur and jump. Bruises and sprains and gashes littered his body to a point that pale skin was nowhere to be seen. Dean didn't think either of the legs were broken, but severely bruised and sprained enough to make the very idea of walking out of there a daunting task. Yet he knew it had to be done. There was no way they were leaving anyone behind. And as far as they had come so far, Dean honestly believed the trek out of the woods was doable. It would just take determination and a little bit of Winchester style cajoling.

Patching Sam and Bobby up quickly with their limited supply of first aid equipment Dean talked them through his plan, never once questioning his own abilities. For the first time since he'd woken after their first traumatic experience in the woods, he'd completely forgotten about his own situation. The prosthetic was no longer an issue. The one and only thing on his mind right now was their father's dying words. _Take care of your brother, Dean. Take care of Sammy._


	39. Chapter 39

**_Wow, alright so let me just say that I hate writing final chapters. I always feel like I'm leaving out important details. So needless to say, this took me longer than I had expected to get finished, but with the amazing season finale I felt it necessary to finish up my own story for you all and stayed up the rest of the night finishing this. Hopefully it will be worth the wait. I want to express my deepest and sincerest gratitude for the amazing response I got to this story. Thank you all so much for starting and sticking with this story; I know it was an ominous subject matter for some of you and I really do appreciate the fact that you gave it - and me - a chance. Your reviews and support have been amazing; I can honestly say I wouldn't have finished this nearly as quickly if it wasn't for the continuous enclave of wonderful responses to the story. So, thank you thank you thank you for everything. I recieved enough excitement over the idea of a sequal that I will very likely continue the journey. But first - I'm off to finish "A Stroke of Bad Luck." Give me about a week or so to catch up on that story and then I'll start to post. And I've got another one in the works called 'Retribution' that I will post as soon as it's completely finished. Hope to see all of you in future stories. You guys make writing worth while. And the finale..._**

****

The trio made quite the image staggering through the woods like a bunch of drunken sailors on leave from their ship. Bobby's wound had ended up being superficial, going through flesh only. Although he still maintained a heavy limp, the pain was more an irritation than an actual hindrance, and between him and Dean they were somehow managing to support Sam. Dean's leg was killing him, and he was certain that it was now swollen to the size of a watermelon. Whether or not he would even be able to get the prosthesis off the residual limb without cutting through the carbon was fast becoming a very real fear. And that didn't even bring the issue of his shoulder into question, the stabbing pains from the three deep gauges stinging unmercifully as Dean strained it keeping Sam moving. But he'd pushed the pain to the back of his mind, his one and only concern that of getting Sam out of the woods safely.

For his part, Sam was barely conscious, only holding on enough to allow Dean and Bobby to guide him back to safety. The lack of lucidity was probably for the best because it was either that, or screaming in agony over the pain that wracked his entire body at every jolt and step. He'd given most of his weight to the older hunters, his feet barely skimming the ground as they walked. But with the broken ribs and wrist and the multitude of bruises all over it made finding a safe spot to support him quite the challenge.

Dean had bound Sam's ribs tightly, making Sam's breathing immediately easier, and he'd found a couple sticks to splint the broken wrist, although he had yet to reset the bones. They would let a doctor do that after a proper x-ray.

"How ya doin there, Sammy?" Dean asked for at least the twentieth time since they had started out over an hour ago. It was the only way to keep Sam awake, to engage him in conversation, yet it was equally difficult to maintain a conversation when they were all panting from exhaustion and injury.

Sam's head jerked up at Dean's voice and he flopped his head in his brother's direction, looking at the older man with glassy eyes. "Never...better," he panted. "You?"

Dean snorted. Sam was barely conscious, yet he was questioning Dean's status. "I'll be doing good once I get you out of the woods," he finally replied, effectively turning the conversation back to Sam.

But Sam wasn't done yet. He had another member of the party to worry about and he voiced his concern with one word. "Bobby?"

"I'm with Dean," Bobby replied. "I'm great just as soon as we get the hell out of this place."

"Dean..." Sam continued, lolling his head back towards his brother. Eventually he ended up resting his chin against his chest, unable to hold his head up any longer, but he was determined to continue the conversation.

"Yeah, Sam," Dean prompted, sidestepping a log in his way and stumbling a bit as the change in direction altered his center of gravity.

"I have a...confession...to make."

"What's that, Sammy, you forget to put on fresh underwear or something?" Leave it to Dean to make a joke out of any situation.

A smile peeked across Sam's face as he realized he didn't know _how _long it had been since he'd seen fresh clothes. They had left in a flurry of activity with no consideration of clothes or food or sleep. But that wasn't his concern right now; right now he had something to get off his chest, and he would say it.

"We followed you."

Dean nodded, somewhat confused. "Yeah, Sam, I kinda figured that much out. Actually, I pretty much expected you would be following me as soon as I set out for here."

Sam shook his head, forcing the lethargy out of the motion to signal there was more to it. He felt Bobby's grip tighten around his arm, warning him to think about what he was about to admit, but Sam was no dummy. This was by far the best time to divulge; Dean couldn't be mad when Sam was barely able to remain upright.

"Not _to..._ Angonquin. _Through_ Algonquin."

"I don't think I'm following you here, Sam. I know you followed me in here. You never would have found me if you hadn't followed me."

Sighing in exasperation, Sam forced himself to look over at Dean, allowing his eyes to belie the information Dean seemed too preoccupied to truly gather. This confession was taking a lot out of him, and Dean jumping to conclusions wasn't helping one bit. He tried again.

"Once we found...you. We followed you...for another couple...hours." There. He'd said it. Let Dean do with the information as he pleased.

Looking over Sam's head, Dean caught Bobby's eye and raised an eyebrow in question. The older hunter replied with a grim face and a shrug of the shoulders, neither action denying the confession Sam had just made. Dean didn't know what to make of it; didn't know whether to be mad at their lack of honesty or grateful for the space they had given him. But he knew one thing; no matter what he felt, he needed to keep his emotions in check for the time being. Now was not the time to be pissed off at Sam.

"So that's what I kept hearing behind me," Dean questioned, forcing the humor in his voice. "You know, I thought I was going crazy, thinking I was hearing the leaves crunching behind me yet never actually seeing anything."

"Wanted you to...finish...the hunt...on your own."

"Thanks for the sentiment, Sam. Didn't really do me all that much good, though."

"Didn't mean to...distract...you."

Dean frowned, listening more closely to Sam's labored breathing as they struggled through the woods. He seemed to be getting worse, the pauses in his speech becoming longer and closer together. "You doin' alright there, Sammy? Getting enough air?"

Sam nodded, eyes focused straight ahead as he worked on putting one unsteady foot in front of the other. "Chest feels…tight," he wheezed out, only taking the time to notice his own quandary once Dean called attention to it. In his nervous anticipation of Dean's anger, Sam had managed to forget all about himself, and it was only now that he realized just how hard it was getting to be to catch his breath.

"Should we take a break for a minute?" Dean's wild eyes shot over Sam's bowed head to once again look at Bobby, both men thinking the same thing. Punctured lung.

"We need to…keep…going," Sam insisted. He stumbled over a small branch as he spoke, his weight dragging at Dean and Bobby's necks in the process, the move doing little to alleviate the older men's fears over his well being.

"No," Dean replied firmly, already directing their footsteps to a clearing off to the right. "You need to stop and rest. I've got to get another look at you."

Sam was really in no state to argue, although he feared for what Dean might tell him if he had a chance to study his injuries any more. Growing up, he and Dean had often lived under the premise of 'what you don't know can't hurt you,' and when applied to injuries that meant that they inevitably would get worse the minute you knew what you were dealing with. If that's what was about to happen now, he didn't want to know.

"'M fine, Dean," Sam slurred. "Jus' keep goin'."

Dean shared another look with Bobby, unsure what to do. His gut told him to stop, to check Sam over, but he also knew that the more times they stopped the longer it would take them to get back out. He figured they were pretty close to the stream by now, but that still meant a minimum of another two hours once they had managed to cross it. _If _they managed to cross it.

"Sam, you can barely walk," Bobby protested. "And now you're having trouble breathing. I would hardly call that fine."

"If we stop…might not…get back up." Sam admitted. "We're all…tired. Need to keep…going."

The kid had a point. But still... Dean finally sighed and lumbered on, bypassing the clearing he'd been so eager to stop at a minute earlier. "Alright. We go until we hit the stream," he finally decided, grudgingly. "But then we stop. It's going to take a but to figure out how to get across anyway."

His companions agreed by submission, neither one saying okay, but neither one protesting either. They continued on their way, stumbling over obstacles as Sam grew heavier and heavier in his companions arms. Sam persevered, pushing himself to his breaking point in an effort to prove his capabilities. But as the stream finally came into view some twenty minutes later he was struggling for air and close to passing out.

"Hey man, how ya doin there?" Dean asked Sam as he and Bobby gently lowered him beside a large boulder at the side of the stream. He tapped at Sam's lolling head, trying to draw his weary brother into the present moment.

"C...an't...breath," Sam panted out, clutching at his chest as though he were trying to remove a giant weight that had ben settled on top of it.

"I know, man. I know. Bobby's gonna take a look at you. We're gonna figure out what's going on, okay? Can you hold on for me?"

Sam gave a weak nod, rolling his head across the support of the boulder he was leaned against and found Bobby off to the side, already pawing through their supply of first aid equipment before he had even examined Sam.

"Bobby-" Dean pleaded helplessly, worried eyes imploring the experienced field medic to do something about his brother.

Inching closer to Sam, pulling the first aid kit with him, Bobby settled onto the balls of his feet and lifted Sam's shirt to expose his bruised chest. Bobby began palpating the tender skin, feeling for anything more out of the norm than what they had already discovered as Sam hissed in protest every time Bobby's callused hands made any kind of purchase on his bruise mottled torso. Finally, Bobby leaned back on his heels and glanced at Dean, grim faced.

"I need to talk to you over there," he said in no uncertain terms. By now, Sam was so out of it it wasn't even necessary to sugar coat the anxiety he was feeling, yet the older hunter still didn't want to discuss the dire circumstances that surrounded Sam.

Dean was on his feet in an instant, nervously following Bobby away from Sam to the edge of the stream several feet away.

"Bobby, what is it?"

"Dean, I don't want you to worry–"

"Damnit, Bobby, it's too late for that," Dean interrupted anxiously. "I'm freakin' out here. What's wrong with Sam?"

Sighing, Bobby decided the only way to do this was to give it to him straight. Dean had been through too much in the last several months to assume he needed anything downplayed for him. So Bobby just came out with it. "His lung's been punctured, Dean. There's a ton of pressure buildup in there and it's just getting worse the longer he goes without help."

Sinking to his knees, Dean looked up at Bobby with a panic stricken face. He dragged a heavy hand through his hair and then turned back to face Sam, noting for the first time the bluish tint to his brother's lips and the stark paleness to the rest of his features. And then he was back in the moment, determined, emphatic. "So what do we do?"

"He needs a chest tube," Bobby admitted grudgingly, arms crossed tightly against his own chest to mask his nervous apprehension. "And he doesn't have time to get to the hospital to get one. If we don't do something for him now, he's going to die."

Dean's eyes went wide. "We don't have a chest tube, Bobby. We don't even have anything that resembles a chest tube."

"We'll improvise."

"How? Do you even know what you're doing? Have you ever even seen a chest tube put in?"

Bobby stormed back to the first aid kit determinedly. "Dean, we don't have a choice. It's that or let him die."

"Yeah, but Bobby..." Tears welled in Dean's eyes as he fought for control over the situation. When all was said and done he knew there was only one thing he could do, and he pleaded with Bobby to provide Sam's safety. "He's my little brother, man. This has to work. You're sure this will work?"

Pausing a second to contemplate his answer, Bobby finally nodded once, firm and convincing. "Yeah, Dean. This will work. It has to."

"Okay."

As Bobby returned to the first aid kit, Dean kneeled at Sam's side and prompted the young hunter to wake up and listen to him.

"Sam. Sammy, you've got to pay attention here. You with me?"

Dazed, Sam tried to focus on Dean's nervous face. He locked his gaze on Dean's familiar green eyes and nodded slightly. "Yeah."

"Kay, Bobby says you have a collapsed lung. He's cut to cut into your chest and insert a tube to relieve the pressure inside. It might hurt a little, but it's going to help in the long run."

"You'll...be...here?" Sam gasped, fingers trailing painfully slowly towards the hand Dean had set on his knee. He linked the tips, unable to force his hand to move any further, and Dean finished the gesture for him, his strong hand clutching tightly to Sam's weakened one.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'll be here. I'm right here."

And then Bobby was there, kneeling beside Sam and asking Dean to help him ease Sam to the ground, laying him in a prone position. Grim faced, he cleaned his pen knife with an alcohol swab and prepared a length of tourniquet tubing - the best they could do under the circumstances - the same way.

Dean readjusted his position, coming around behind Sam's head and gripping his little brother's good hand in his own as he used his other hand to stroke Sam's cheek. He was out of Bobby's way, distracting Sam from the process, but still able to keep a close eye on the task at hand. A quick glance in Dean's direction allowed Bobby to wordlessly ask if the Winchester brother's were ready. Dean nodded affirmatively, and Bobby began.

The pen knife went in smooth and fast, like slicing through butter. Sam winced and sucked in a breath of air he couldn't quite reach. His hand gripped tight to Dean's and Dean squeezed back.

"It's okay, Sam. I'm right here. It's gonna be okay."

Dean continued to stroke Sam's hair, his hands purposely falling low enough on Sam's forehead at the onset of each stroke that Sam had to keep his eyes closed to protect them. Bobby maintained a steadfast concentration on his task, squeezing the ends of the flimsy tourniquet tubing and sliding it into the hole he'd just created in Sam's chest cavity. It wasn't ideal, but he made the most of what he had, stitching the tubing into Sam's chest and leaning back on his heels to wait for the tightening in Sam's chest to recede.

It seemed to take forever before the tube did it's job, the waiting finding Dean and Bobby holding their breath along with Sam's shortened breaths. But finally enough air escaped Sam chest to let up on the hold it had on his collapsing lungs and he managed to take a full, deep breath. And then another one. And another.

Color returned to his cheeks and receded from his lips and fingernails as oxygen began to circulate throughout his body again, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief.

"Feel better, little brother?"

Sam nodded, reveling in the simple pleasure of real oxygen filling his system. He struggled to push himself back up as his brain returned to the initial problem - that they still had to get out of the woods - and Dean reached out to help him up. Big brother propped Sam against his chest, slowing bringing him vertical again as he turned questioning eyes back to Bobby.

"We've _got_ to get him out of here. We're not getting anywhere the way we're doing this right now. One of us has to go on ahead."

Bobby didn't think long on the subject, quickly nodding his agreement to Dean as he began to pack the first aid kit back up. The question came to how; who would go on and race for help? Whose leg was the lesser damaged of the two? Dean would have happily cloned himself and done both tasks, because there was no way he was leaving Sam, but there was no way he was putting Sam's welfare in someone else's hands either.

In the end, though, it was clear how this would go down, and after carefully traversing the treacherous, slippery stream Bobby took off at a limping sprint down the trail as Dean and Sam followed more slowly behind. Dean continued to ignore his fast weakening limb and his throbbing shoulder in favor of keeping Sam upright and awake. He found that they had to stop more often now as Sam became weaker. The tube was working to allow him to continue breathing, but it was fast becoming clear that the pliable rubber wasn't the ideal piece of equipment. The walls were collapsing and air wasn't escaping as fast as Dean would have liked, but it was keeping Sam alive. That's what mattered.

Eventually the exterior world seemed to become obsolete to both brothers and the primary focus became solely on putting one foot in front of the other. So it was no surprise that the rescue team managed to sneak up on the two weary hunters. It was the snap of a twig only a few feet away and the yelling of their names from the eight rescuers directly in front of them that finally had Dean snapping out of his trance. He reached for his weapon as he pulled Sam closer to him, putting his himself between the entourage and his brother, his foggy mind having difficulty establishing the connection that this was their rescue.

Forever passed before the frantic voices of the rescuers managed to break through Dean's haze and convince the nervous hunter to stand down. And then everything seemed to happen in a flurry of commotion. Sam was whisked from Deans arms, several of the medics hooking him up to IV fluids and replacing the makeshift first aid Dean and Bobby had done with fresh bandages. His barely conscious form was laid on a stretcher and strapped in as Dean watched anxiously from his position seated on a rock several feet away.

Dean continued to refuse his own medical treatment, insisting he was fine even as he felt the prick of the needle as his own dose of IV fluids was started. He tried to ignore the shocked expressions of the medics as they discovered the prosthetic leg. Exclamations of amazement at how much he had accomplished began to spew from their mouths, quickly followed by clearly appalled utterances as they realized just how swollen the limb had become because of his extended trek. That pretty much sealed the deal that he wouldn't be walking out of there, and no matter how much he fought them there was nothing he could do. One of the medics had already removed the prosthesis from his leg, and even if he could have gotten it back there was no way it was going back on the watermelon that he used to call a limb.

Finally relenting, Dean laid back and forced himself to endure the ride through what was left of the trail. His punishment for not allowing him the dignity of walking out of there was to issue a constant barrage of _How's Sammy's? _and _What's going on with him now_'s? that they were forced to answer quickly and accurately if they didn't want the volume of his already too constant questions to increase.

xxxxxxxxxx

Word spread through the hospital fast, that the two young men who had been rushed in near death three months earlier had just been brought in again. Trauma's such as Dean's, where a limb was lost, were few and far between and that combined with his not-so-subtle outbursts during his recovery meant that much of the ER and recovery wing staff remembered him. So when they heard that a young man with a recent amputation and his brother were being brought in after being pulled from the Algonquin woods it was pretty easy to put two and two together.

Dean lay in a panic in his ER cubicle, fighting with the young intern that was treating him as he insisted that he was fine and just needed to see his brother, when he heard the sound of the curtain being drawn. He looked up, his blank expression becoming one of recognition as his old doctor appeared in front of him.

"Dr. Hurley," Dean greeted, immediately assuming that his 'connection' with this man would surely entitle him to a free pass to trauma room 2 where Sam was currently having a real chest tube put in among a medley of other treatments. "It's so good to see you. You've got to get me in to see my brother. Sam is..." Dean trailed off, finally noticing the stern expression on the doctors face emphasized by the firm cross of his arms against his chest.

"Tell me, Mr. Winchester. Do you purposely go seeking trouble or are you just the unluckiest SOB that ever walked this planet?" His mouth drew up into a smirk, indicating that he wasn't quite as annoyed as he had initially appeared to be.

Dean matched the man's expression, adding a chuckle to the mix. "I'm gonna plead the fifth on that one doc. Just had some unfinished business to attend to. You know how it is."

Hurley shook his head, crossing the room to do his own examination on his ex patient. "Don't get me wrong, Dean," he began, pulling the sheet down and probing the swollen leg. "I'm glad you're making progress on your recovery. And I'm _really_ glad that you got over you slump and put everything you have into healing. But I think making the decision to go out this soon for a day long nature hike in the middle of the woods with some creature out there killing people, which, I might add, has already done massive damage to you and your brother, was maybe a little bit stupid. Don't you?"

Dean cast a sheepish look at the doctor, unwilling to admit how right the man was no matter how much pain he was in or how injured Sam was. "If it helps...we got the damn thing," Dean tried instead, purposely avoiding the topic of what it was. "It's dead and buried now."

To say that Dr. Hurley was surprised would be an understatement. He blinked rapidly, eyebrows arched in amazement as he stared at his stubborn patient.

"_You_ managed to get whatever was out there, killing all those people?" the disbelieving doctor demanded, sinking into a chair as he took in the news. Dean didn't know if the skepticism was more because Hurley knew just how dangerous the thing really was or if it was because his stubborn, one legged patient had been the one to put an end to the reign of terror, but the hunter chose to give his doctor the benefit of the doubt. He didn't have time or energy to waste on prejudices.

"Rabid wolf," Dean lied convincingly in response. Never mind the fact that many of the injuries and fatal blows could in no way have been caused by a wolf, rabid or otherwise. The Winchester's had long ago determined that most of the world would much prefer a plausible explanation over the truth. It was easier to wrap their heads around known possibilities than it was to accept supernatural fact.

Dr. Hurley was no exception to this fact; he nodded agreeably, with a sense of trust exhibited by most children. "And you actually managed to bury the thing, too? In your state?"

"Adrenaline can do some crazy things to a person. I never even felt the pain in my leg until those medics showed up." He glanced down at the mass of swollen black and blue that Hurley was once again fussing with, and winced. "So did I screw it up for good this time?"

"Quite frankly, Dean, I'm surprised that you were able to stay upright at all. I'm certain your therapist had warned you against going long periods of time on that prosthesis; your leg just hasn't healed well enough for you to work it that hard."

Dean smirked. "He might have said something to that effect."

"And what," Hurley pressed. "You just thought it was a casual suggestion?"

"People were dying," Dean protested. "And I had the power to stop it." He didn't know why he was opening up so much to this man, but he felt he owed him an explanation. The guy had brought him back from the brink of death once before, and this was the least he could do repay him.

"What do you have that someone else didn't" Hurley challenged.

"I think I'll let the facts speak for themselves. It's dead, isn't it?"

"Well, I really don't know. Until people stop dying out there all the proof I have is your word."

Dean shrugged. "Just trust me on this. It's gone. The woods are safe once again." He changed tunes, ready to get off the subject. "So my leg..."

"Is severely bruised and swollen," the doctor admitted, "but there's no permanent damage. I'm ordering you to stay off that leg until the swelling has completely receded, though. And there's no defying that, Dean. You keep up this recklessness and you're going to lose more of the leg. And trust me, you _don't_ want to know what it's like to learn to walk on a prosthetic knee."

"Don't you worry, Doctor, I'll make sure Dean here stays off his leg." Both men turned toward the opening of the curtained off area to see Missouri standing there, arms crossed, smirk playing across her face. "If I have to hide those prosthetics until he's better, he'll let himself heal completely. You have my word on that."

Dean shot Missouri a look of annoyance, silently ordering her to butt out of his business, but the doctor seemed satisfied with her promise and that alone kept Dean from vocalizing his thoughts.

"In that case, I'll let them finish patching up your shoulder and let you be on your way. It was good to see you again, Dean."

"Yeah, you too, doc," Dean agreed, wincing as the young intern, who for the past several minutes had remained quiet and out of the way, returned to patching the gashes in his shoulder.

Hurley crossed the small space toward the door, but stopped just as he reached the doorway, turning around and facing his old patient once again. "But Dean?"

"Yeah."

"Do me a favor, would you?"

Dean nudged his chin toward the doctor, indicating his willingness to at least hear the request.

"The next time you want to come visit me just do me a favor and walk through the front door with chocolates and a bottle of wine like most normal people do, huh. No more of this transportation by ambulance crap. From now on, the ER doors are off limits to you, got it?"

Chuckling, Dean sat himself up a little straighter and smiled at the doctor. "Tell you what, doc. If I never set foot in Canada again, it will be too soon. How's that for an answer."

Hurley nodded, smirking. "I think that's an answer I can live with. You just take care of yourself, huh?"

"Will do, doc. Will do."

xxxxxxxxxx

Three days later, Sam's chest tube was removed and he found himself insisting on an early release from the hospital. In all honesty, he would have gladly stayed there another day or two to allow his weary body more time to recoup. But he could tell how antsy Dean was getting within the walls of the suffocating hospital and he felt he owed it to Dean to get the whole group out of there. Dean had, after all, saved his life back in the woods.

The four of them trooped out of the hospital, Bobby and Missouri leading the way through the halls as Dean tried his damndest to hover over Sam's weakened, stooped over body, while he struggled with his own crutches and injured shoulder. Sam's hand was in a cast, his ribs taped up tightly, and his left knee tightly secured by a knee brace as he hobbled down the hall, weight resting heavily on one of Dean's canes that Bobby had thought to throw into the back of the truck before they'd left. He would have been glad for the additional support, but it would have been like the blind leading the blind as banged up as Dean was. The older hunter could barely manage the crutch clutched beneath his injured shoulder, hiding a wince with every pull of the stitches, yet he still insisted of stalking his little brother as though he would be successful if Sam were to stumble and fall. Yet Sam now had no doubts that Dean would somehow make that move work - he would always be there to catch Sam.

The cars were parked directly in front of the hospital, ready for their occupants, and Dean quickly helped Sam into the passenger side of his car with a sigh of relief at getting his little brother to safety, before hobbling over to the drivers seat. With a curt nod to Bobby as the elder hunter pulled his own injured leg up into the driver's side footwell of his truck, Dean pulled away from the curb and pointed the car back out onto the main road. They were all heading back to Missouri's for a few more weeks of rest and relaxation before Dean and Sam finally moved on for good. They had had the discussion the night before, when Sam had announced he wanted to leave the hospital the next morning, and this was the compromise everyone had grudgingly come to.

Missouri wanted the boys to remain for another few months, wanted Dean to spend loads more time in therapy making sure he was really healed and fully ready to be using the prosthetics on an all day basis before she let the young man out of her sight. And that didn't even account for her concern for Sam and the fact that he still clearly got winded just walking from the bed to the bathroom and back.

But Dean was itching to get back onto the road, back to the hunt, and even Sam seemed anxious to move out again. So she had finally relented to them staying just long enough to prove they were healed, and then having to allow them to fly the coop. Like wild animals, the Winchester boys would never be tamed.

Bobby was only driving back to pack up the remainder of his stuff and head back home. He'd been away long enough, and it was clear by Dean's disappearing act to Algonquin, that the boys no longer needed him to help with recovery. The 'mental' issues - recalcitrance, obstinance, disobedience - were long ingrained in the boys' heads, and he knew there was nothing he could do about those.

Dean had reluctantly agreed to the terms that Sam and the other's placed on him, although if anyone were to delve deep into his psyche they would learn that he was secretly glad for the terms. They would start out small with the hunts, stick to minor league haunting's and possessions, things that were less likely to require long hours of standing or great distances of walking. He had to prove himself from one hunt to the next, and undergo intense scrutiny after every hunt, demonstrating a 'healthy' limb after each one before Sam would allow him to take on something more challenging.

It meant bypassing a lot of hunts, turning them over to other hunters that were nearby, but it was the only way Sam was willing to deal. His little brother had made the rules quite clear - all or nothing. And for once, Dean agreed to the terms without a fight. He would let Sam have his say on this.

"Hey Dean?" Sam spoke in a scratchy whisper as he rolled his head across the back of the seat to look at his brother.

Dean took his eyes off the road for a minute to return Sam's gaze and turned back to the blacktop. "Yeah, Sam."

"I think I owe you an apology."

"For what, Sam?" Dean queried, genuinely confused.

"I doubted you. I never should have doubted your ability."

Holding up a hand to put a stop to the conversation, Dean shook his head. "Sam, don't. Please. You were right - I had no business being out there." He rubbed absently at the remaining stump of his leg as the limb began to throb, as though reminding him of the trouble that had started this in the first place.

"That's just it, Dean. You totally saved the day out there. If you hadn't have been there, I don't think I would be alive right now. And that spirit probably would still be out there terrorizing the Algonquin woods. You were awesome."

"Yeah, and I paid for it, too," Dean scoffed. "I've set my recovery back by weeks; who knows, maybe even months."

"And saved a ton of people in the process. Just think how many people would have died if we had waited until we knew for sure you were ready." Sam failed to mention that he and Bobby were planning to take the thing out without Dean in the same time period as Dean had worked in, hoping his brother would have forgotten the circumstances that started this whole soiree in the first place.

Whether Dean simply chose not to mention it, or whether he truly had forgotten was debatable, but Dean stopped to contemplate the idea before finally nodding slowly in agreement. "I guess you have a point there," he replied humbly. "But it was still stupid, going about it the way I did."

Sam laughed, realizing the tables had just turned. Less than a week before they had each been arguing the exact opposite points. Now, Sam might as well be encouraging Dean to be heading out for a hunt, while Dean was begging off the job. But this was a far better alternative than chasing Dean through half of North America to save his sorry ass. Sam would take this option any day.

He sighed, looking to the other side of the car and studying his brother in silence for several minutes. Dean finally seemed relaxed, content, dare he say happy. He knew they had a long way to go before Dean's need for a prosthetic leg would become a non-issue between them. For months to come, maybe even years, Sam knew it would always be a point of concern for both of them. But Dean's stubborn determination to bring down the spirit in the Algonquin woods had done a lot to prove his capabilities; to prove he was still the old Dean Winchester. No longer was there the deep seated doubt that Dean wouldn't still be one hundred and fifty percent during a hunt. They both knew now that nothing could stop him from accomplishing everything he would ever desire to do, and as they sped down the highway on their return trip to Missouri's both brother's silently shared in the knowledge that everything would be okay; as long as they had each other.


End file.
